


we may fall (but we get up again)

by jmcats



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: 27 dresses au, Barebacking, Love/Hate Relationship, M/M, Riding, a tiny bit of liam pining over Louis, and a little bit of an ode to coldplay, plus some rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-14 15:29:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 58,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3415904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jmcats/pseuds/jmcats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Liam's favorite moment - helping someone else create a memory.  He's always the best man, the one holding everything together at a wedding.  And, one day, he's going to fall madly in love and create that <i>moment</i> for himself.  And he knows it in his blood - that <i>moment</i> won't include some cynical, smug bloke named Zayn Malik.</p><p>(alternately: a <i>27 Dresses</i> AU where Liam is everyone's favorite best man and he just might be madly in love with his boss ... and maybe with an arrogant writer who <i>hates</i> weddings as much as Liam <i>loves</i> them, too)</p>
            </blockquote>





	we may fall (but we get up again)

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this because I really wanted a [27 Dresses au](http://jmcats.tumblr.com/post/106567467473/let-me-tell-you-how-much-i-need-a-27-dresses-ziam). I definitely changed quite a few of the plotline ideas around and added some elements not featured in the film that I thought would fit the Zayn/Liam connection a little more.
> 
> Huge thanks to all of the support I got to not give up on this one. I don't know if it's my best but I sure as hell gave it a try :)
> 
> Title comes from "We'll Keep Running Forever" by Joshua Radin.

 

 

 

The sky is that right shade of ultramarine that makes everything look new, spring fresh. The wind flutters warm breaths like a kingfisher’s wings. The pews inside of the church are stuffed, shoulder to shoulder, with family and friends. There’s a soft surge of dopamine in his blood and Liam –

Liam feels like he’s been waiting _ages_ for this moment.

Well, almost.

There’s a thin shine of sweat along his palms, a set of hands in his own, his fingers trembling around the ring he’s trying to slide over knuckles. He feels completely daft with a huge, dumb grin, soft calm breaths through his nose, his throat a little dry –

“Sorry,” he huffs, clearing his throat while struggling with the ring. He blinks into a pair of eyes like slow-stirred coffee and feels the _calm_ spill into his blood. He relaxes his shoulders, tilts his head slightly.

(he promised himself he wouldn’t ruin this moment)

“I can’t properly say there’s an easy way for me to tell you how much I love you,” he smiles after a quick breath, “because talking about love is never simple, yeah? It’s _complicated_. But falling in love with you? That was easy. Quite simple.”

His lips quirk and his heart speeds up a half a beat more when fingers squeeze around his.

“I’ve thought about a dozen different words to tell you,” Liam shrugs, biting at his grin when the sun flicks hazy halos through stained windows, “but I only really need three good ones. Just three words for the rest of my life. And that’s the easy part, innit?”

There’s a thick laugh thumping at his chest after a breathy sigh crosses pink-bitten lips.

“So, today, I want to use those three words to start our lives,” Liam continues, his voice less strangled, warmer, “and I’ll use ‘em for the rest of our lives, alright?”

“Fuck,” Andy breathes, groaning as he tugs his hands from Liam’s fingers. “C’n y’like write all of that shit down? Or maybe stand in for me, mate? All of that sounds so pretty comin’ out of your dumb mouth, bro.”

“And it sounds so daft coming out of yours,” Max teases from a corner of the room.

There’s an echo of heavy laughter from the other groomsmen and Liam stumbles back with sugar pink blush staining his cheeks. He cups the nape of his neck with a sweaty hand, shrugging for Andy.

“Can’t really say Jade would appreciate me up there ‘stead of you, mate,” he offers, dragging his fingers through his hair and trying not to wreck the product-slick style Andy’s aunt gave him hours ago.

“Fuck, right,” Andy smirks. “You had ‘er when we were wee bits, mate. I won the war.”

“Barely,” Maz says, wriggling his eyebrows and the small suite at the back of the church rattles with more laughter.

Andy flips Maz off and Liam staggers to a mirror, frowning at himself.

He’s undone the top button of his neatly-pressed oxford, his bowtie hanging limp from the collar. He fixes his cuffs, slides on his jacket (a neat variation of _midnight_ because Jade couldn’t decide on a color and Andy gave a fuck all about it as long as it _fit_ ) that hugs his shoulders properly. He drags the back of his wrist over his forehead to clean off the gleam of sweat and finally exhales.

(It’s not _his_ wedding day, it never really is, but he feels all of the nerves and the apprehension and he’s nearly bricking it at the thought like he’s certain Andy is.)

(Except, Andy’s spent most of the morning making cheap jokes and avoiding rehearsing his vows, the dumb twit.)

From a corner of his eye, he can see Niall wiggling a toe through a hole in his sock, waistcoat haphazardly done up, braces hanging from his belt. Liam’s shoulders drop a little, his sympathetic smile waved off by Niall for a crooked smirk.

“Fifty quid says Andy pisses his trousers if Liam bails,” Tom laughs, lazily spread out on one of the cream sofas.

“Oi, fuck off,” Andy chuckles, fighting with his hair in a mirror. He shoots an amusing glare over his shoulder. “This’ll be you in a few weeks, mate.”

“I know,” Tom sighs, scrunching his nose. “I’ve saved up a few hundred pounds to pay Liam to marry ‘er instead.”

Another rattle of laughs like a rough bass speaker thumps through the room. Liam drags a hand down his face, looking away to hide his smile.

A room of complete wankers and he absolutely loves them all.

“He won’t do it,” Andy smirks, knocking Liam’s shoulder as he passes. “The dumb bloke is waiting for the perfect gentleman to ruin him. Dumb tosser.”

Liam lets out a protesting whine that’s barely heard over the vibrating chuckles, half-turning on his heels to look at himself in the mirror again.

(He tries not to glare at himself – his clean shaven jaw, the way he looks in the same suit all the other lads are wearing, the weeping flower on his lapel, his ordinary looks that he’s slowly growing into – )

“Hey, y’look _fit_ , bro,” Niall grins, stumbling into Liam’s vision. His pale fingers attempt to straighten Liam’s collar (leaving it crooked and Liam waits until Niall’s not looking to fix it again) before he dusts the lint from Liam’s jacket. “Not quite as smart as me, but you’ll do.”

Liam’s lips slide into a small smile, a soft fist punching Niall’s shoulder.

(It’s not that he’ll ever admit it but he’s not quite Niall – not with the electric bright blonde hair and the seawater blue eyes and fair skin, the permanent blush in his cheeks, completely effortless shape to his body.

He’s not jealous but still.)

“Plan on ditching your suit at some drunken girl’s flat tonight?” Liam smirks, brushing a hand against Niall’s over-gelled hair.

Niall swats his hand back with a frown that quickly fades. “Already lined up two of t’ bridesmaids,” he snorts. “Planning a right threesome and breakfast in bed in the mornin’.”

“You’re hopeless, mate,” Liam grins. “Where’s the romance?”

Niall rolls his eyes instantly. “’m just looking for a quick one-off, bro. A good, clean shag. ‘s only reason I bother showing up at these t’ings.”

“Gross,” Liam says with a soft laugh, shoving Niall out of the mirror.

Niall’s cackle chases him all the way back to one of the settees, his cheeks turning crimson.

Liam sighs and gives himself one last swift glance, grinning at his reflection.

Absolutely perfect – for a best man, that is.

He takes a quick look at his watch (an old piece his grandfather wore, the second hand a few clicks too slow, but it still works) and smiles – it’s half two.

“Less than an hour left, lads,” he calls, his lips tipping lopsided when the room echoes with a few gruff chants.

They’re just a bunch of stupid mates from secondary school, lads he and Andy have known since Reception. Just a room of blokes Liam thought would never marry, including Andy.

It sinks something a little sad, desperate into his veins. A little reminder like –

Maybe it should be him instead?

Liam ignores it quickly, pressing out a small smile for Andy when he catches the pout Andy shoots him from across the room.

(He’s just enough time to check the floral arrangements by the guest book, chase down the flower girls, help Jade with her dress and make sure she hasn’t crawled out that box-sized window in the loos to get away.)

(Because, honestly, Jade has been nothing but a mess of nerves for _weeks_ and Andy has been helpless about it all.)

He shoulders his way across the room to Andy, smiling, passing a scratched up flask (a _‘just in case’_ he keeps for moments similar to this) before sighing. He watches Andy take a large gulp, rolling his eyes and snorting at the way Andy gasps, before grabbing his hands.

“Alright, you dumb shit,” he groans, easing the ring onto Andy’s knuckles again, “let’s give it a go again, yeah?”

Andy shoots him a thankful smile and Liam secretly tries not to preen too much.

(He loves moments like this.)

 

+++

 

Andy only manages to stumble through half of his vows, mumbling the other half with a dumb grin that the guests find so damn endearing. There’s this hum of laughter, cheering, and Andy shoots Liam this grateful little grin over his shoulder before he snogs Jade sloppily at the altar.

(And no one even notices Jade’s little panic attack before she walks down the aisle, the flowers attached to hem of Katie’s tiny little dress to cover a grape juice stain, two missing bridesmaids for the family portraits – Niall, that bastard – or Andy’s dad missing his cue for the candle lighting.

Because Liam handles it all, so stealthily, with a smile.

Like he always does on days like this.

He makes sure nothing takes away from Jade and her dress or the stubborn tears in Andy’s eyes or –

Liam makes sure everything is perfect. Every tiny little moment.)

The reception is a hurricane. A typhoon of people crowding the small dance floor for a parade of Michael Jackson, old Bon Jovi tunes, a set list that goes from George Michael to Drake before Liam can blink properly. Glasses of champagne go from hand to hand, beer bottles littering the tables (because Andy _insisted_ ), fruity cocktails at the bar (because Jade _demanded_ ), and napkins folded like a dove’s tail (because Liam thought it looked posh and no one argued with him on it).

“Y’know, this is a party,” Niall smirks from beside Liam with scrunched eyes like circus lights, already fours ales in and his fifth glass in his left hand. “Y’can have some fun, yeah? You don’t have to make sure everything goes perfect.”

Liam smirks, shuffling his shoulders to some Clean Bandit tune. “I am,” he insists, even if he’s watching over the waiters to make sure they don’t nick any sips of bourbon between courses.

Niall nudges him roughly. “Liar.”

Liam huffs a laugh, rolling his eyes. “I am _trying_.”

“Well, you’re shit at it,” Niall says after a sip. “You haven’t even had a proper drink.”

“I had water,” Liam replies, flatly.

“A fucking riot, y’are Payno. Life of the damn party,” Niall groans, stealing a glass of champagne from a passing hostess. He tosses her a wink and Liam snorts at the way she flutters her eyelashes at him.

Niall wriggles his eyebrows at Liam. “Back-up plan.”

“Slag,” Liam smiles, loosening his collar, shoving his cuffs to his elbows. Niall ignores him to stumble behind the hostess and Liam chokes back a laugh, shouting, “Wear protection this time!”

Niall blindly flips him off and Liam decides (amusedly) Niall might be right.

(After all, he’s already run through his speech with Jade’s dad twice, stationed the photographer for all of the best angles of Jade’s dress while she dances, sat half of the guests even though he doesn’t _have_ to –

It comes natural. He’s the sensible one in this lot. Every little knot tightened and anchor lowered, he thinks.)

(It’s perfect.)

He spins past the large crowd stumbling through the choreography for _‘Thriller’_ (for the third time in an hour, honestly) with a clumsy smile, high-fiving Andy’s younger cousins, helping a flower girl into her chair, checking on the kitchen staff. There’s this restless happiness deep in his system (it’s not synthetic or artificial like he’s certain Niall thinks it is) and he feels a bit dopey.

Restless, maybe, but it’s enough.

(these tiny little moments are his footprints in life – even if the moments aren’t entirely his.)

Liam staggers all the way up to the bar when the DJ cues up _‘Gold Digger,’_ glancing down at his watch (he’s organized a spotlight for a newlywed slow dance at half eight, the cake cutting a quarter after nine, the bouquet toss to follow). There’s a bright shine of sweat on his brow, his hair mussed from Andy’s anxious fingers, his suit half-undone and he’s perfectly unprepared for –

“You look like y’could use a drink, mate.”

His voice is that soft scratch of _‘hello’_ you expect from a night after a brilliant shag. He’s a bit off-putting with these sharp cheekbones, evening stubble, black-rimmed glasses nearly hidden by the way his soft, dark hair falls into his eyes. His eyes remind Liam of _spring_ (when everything is a little green, vaguely gold, amber and honey) and there’s ink exposed from his rolled-up sleeves, crawling up his forearm like graffiti.

Liam thinks (absently because fuck he can’t really take his eyes away) this boy’s smile is too crooked when he grins, a pink tongue pressing against his teeth, his head cocked. A stud-hoop combo in his ears that makes no sense and this hint of cockiness that Liam usually _hates_ –

(No, he does hate it. Viciously. It’s never really been his type.)

“No, thanks, mate,” Liam shrugs, leaning over the bar, ordering up a water. He salutes the boy with his fresh glass, condensation crawling down his fingers. “Cheers.”

The smoky laugh he receives is warm, the noise sticking to the back of the boy’s throat.

“Takes the edge off,” the boy grins.

Liam wiggles his eyebrows a bit dopily because, well, he’s not sure what else to do.

(If anyone ever asked, they’d tell the world Liam was shit at flirting or chatting someone up – not that he was _trying_ to do any of that. Not with this boy, at least.)

“Just need, um, refreshing or summat?” Liam replies, biting along his lower lip.

“Hydration?” the boy offers.

Liam tries not to flush but the assault along his cheeks is immediate. He ducks his head, taking a quick gulp of water.

(He’s not certain why his throat goes cotton-dry or why his hands shake or the constant hum of _‘the way you make me feel you really turn me on’_ in his head because – it’s so _daft_ and it’s just the music in the background, he swears.)

He tugs out a few quid for the bartender, smiling appreciatively, before a few long fingers brush softly over his knuckles.

“I can buy?” the boy offers, looking mental with his stupid ( _charming_ ) grin and crooked ( _amusing_ ) lips quirking upward and obnoxiously ( _breathtakingly_ – fuck) eyelashes fanning over his cheeks repeatedly.

“M’good,” Liam mumbles, dragging his hand away.

(He smears the sweat from his palm along the seam of his trousers nonchalantly.)

“But thanks anyway,” Liam adds with a lift of his eyebrows, a final salute with his water.

“Y’sure ‘cause I think – “

“Christ, been looking f’r you everywhere and, yes, two vodkas and cranberry,” Niall grins, sidling up to Liam, dragging his eyes openly over the boy. He fists his fingers into Liam’s collar, a put upon smirk on his cotton candy lips. “Be back in a mo’, gorgeous.”

Liam flinches before Niall hauls him away from the bar. He falls into the momentum (even though he’s broader, stronger than Niall) for an excuse to get away from smooth gold skin and hidden tattoos and –

 _Shit_.

“Are you completely mad?” Niall hisses when they’re halfway into the crowd, scowling at Liam. “He’s quite fit.”

Liam peeks over Niall’s shoulder, grimacing at the boy gaping at them with a confused look.

“Not me type,” Liam shrugs, rubbing the end of his nose. “Besides, ‘m here for Jade and Andy. Who has time to bother?”

Niall groans obscenely, ignoring the little looks he gets from a few couples dancing around them.

“You do, you massive twit,” Niall argues, dropping his voice, pinching Liam’s hip. “You helplessly single – “

“Voluntarily single,” Liam corrects.

Niall shoots him an incredulous stare that Liam tips his head back to laugh at.

“Fuck off,” Niall sighs, popping a few buttons on Liam’s shirt, smoothing down his hair. “If an insanely hot lad offers ye a drink, you smile and flirt discreetly and ask ‘im to get you a vodka-cran.”

Liam frowns, scratching at his temple.

Niall’s shoulders drop and he smiles almost apologetically. “Or in your case, mate, a vodka-ginger. One kidney and all, yeah?”

“It healed itself,” Liam says softly with a smile.

“Fuck right off,” Niall snorts, shoving at Liam’s shoulder. “Y’like fucking Superman or summat. Should be getting banged ‘stead of coordinating your best mate’s wedding. You’re a right Julia Roberts’ film, bro.”

Liam shrugs carelessly and doesn’t bother arguing. He intentionally doesn’t look towards the bar – he exhales softly because he doesn’t _have_ to.

The boy is already gone out of sight.

“Brilliant move, Payno,” Niall whispers, shaking his head, hip-checking Liam as he passes.

Liam’s cheeks burn and he tries not to slump over too much as he eases through the crowd towards the DJ booth to cue up a soft Etta James tune to set the mood.

He smiles when Andy clumsily spins Jade around the nearly empty floor at the sound of _‘at last my love has come along my lonely days are over’_ and doesn’t bother looking for a boy with dark hair, a twisted little grin in the crowd.

(This isn’t his moment anyway.)

 

+++

 

There’s still this little flicker of happiness under his skin afterwards. There always is.

When the crowd is thinning out inside the venue, Andy helping Jade into a sleek black car decorated in chalky obscene writing (because their mates are twats and, truthfully, it’s pretty fucking funny) and trashy streamers, beat up beer cans hanging from the bumper. After he’s carted off most of the drunken wedding party into cabs, stuffing the gifts into separate cars, arranging a nice suite at the hotel for Andy and Jade.

A little after he’s watched Niall snog some nameless bird for a few songs, strolling off with a dodgy couple and two bridesmaids for some (undoubtedly) unintended orgy back at Niall’s downtown flat.

It pricks and tickles beneath his arms when he steps outside to wet London streets from a late evening rain. He takes in a quick breath of damp concrete, a shuffle of salty cold air, stale cigarette smoke. His lips twitch upward immediately when the stars hang low overhead.

It’s really quite perfect.

Every little stich of this –

There’s a quiet drag of a laugh nearby. It’s accompanied by a grey fog of smoke and a boy with eyes like early spring.

“Still look like you could use a drink,” he says, his voice scratchier from the cigarette, his smile tilted.

Liam frowns. “M’good.”

“Alright,” the boy shrugs, easing up casually, tucking loose strands of inky hair behind his ear. “You don’t look it.”

(Liam figures he probably doesn’t – his suit mostly wrinkled now, his jacket hanging off one arm, his tie undone.)

He sniffs, wrinkling his nose at the scent (Marlboro Reds, cheap beer, orange-ginger body wash under heady cologne) that hangs around the boy next to him now.

His teeth chew at his lip, his eyes quickly averting when he spots that crookedly insufferable smile. He blinks at the passing cars, the dotted stars shining in the puddles. “Quite brilliant, thanks – “

“Zayn,” he quickly offers, extending a hand. “It’s Zayn since you never really asked.”

Liam swallows a sigh and his grip is nice, warm, soft around Liam’s hand. It’s a little disturbing (like his smile and his eyes and his maddeningly sharp cheeks) and Liam gently pulls his hand away after a brief moment.

“Didn’t think it mattered,” Liam shrugs.

Zayn laughs quietly, the noise thick and raspy in the dullness outside.

“S’that so?” he challenges, sounding completely unaffected by Liam’s mood. “A little too caught in the bullshit brilliance of the night?”

Liam scowls, his eyebrows knit together. “S’my mate’s wedding you’re taking the piss at.”

A pink tongue sneaks out to slide across sugary pink lips and Liam stares for a little too long before Zayn takes another quick puff from his cigarette.

“Right, ‘m sorry,” he replies, shrugging carelessly, rocking back on his heels. “Still, you gotta admit – it’s all bullshit. Weddings, I mean.”

Liam’s shoulders drop immediately. He wants to throttle Niall because –

This boy is the utter non-definition of Liam’s type.

“You’re not serious?” Liam strangles out, stepping back, scrunching his brow.

He almost misses the cab that pulls up, the soft screech of the tires a little louder than his frustrated breathing. Zayn yanks open the door with a cheeky smile, jerking his head towards the backseat.

“Maybe,” he hums.

Liam wrinkles his face, groaning, shouldering past Zayn to climb in and he’s halfway through spouting out his address when –

“Sounds brilliant. I’m just off Addison Road,” Zayn beams, shuffling inside, slamming the door shut.

Liam’s certain his eyes are a little too wide, his jaw gone slack, his fingers curling into the leather headrest of the driver’s seat. He bites at his lip, shoving down the frustratingly loud _‘no fucking way’_ in his throat, before slumping down next to Zayn.

“Just drive,” he huffs, turning away from Zayn to stare determinedly out the window.

Their silence blooms like an unwanted afterthought from drinking too much whiskey. The street lamps shine down into the cab, the cheap radio speakers playing out something that Zayn hums along to, tapping his long fingers along his knees. Liam blinks hard at spare raindrops slicking the windows and sulks.

Like a five year old.

Like a petulant teenager not getting his way.

(It’s fucking ridiculous, honestly.)

“You’re taking the piss, right?” he finally asks, half-turning to Zayn, ignoring the soft roll of _‘and when you say you won’t forget me well I can tell you that’s untrue’_ in the background when Zayn smirks something wicked at him.

Zayn leans back some, chewing at his lip. “Never did tell me your name?”

Liam hiccups an indignant noise. “Liam,” he mutters, turning away again. “Which doesn’t matter ‘cause I can’t be bothered chatting with a bloke who doesn’t believe in marriage.”

“Never said that,” Zayn argues, his smile crowding his voice. “Just not weddings.”

“But that’s the whole fucking point,” Liam moans with flailing hands. “It’s a celebration.”

Zayn scoffs, tipping his head back. “S’not, really. It’s an _excuse_. A joke, really.”

Liam nips at the tip of his tongue, caging in harsh words.

He feels a little defenseless at the way Zayn licks his lips, drags his lower lip under his teeth, sucking softly, thoughtfully. It’s an art, truthfully.

“Weddings are about tossing on your fancy dress. Getting pissed on posh wines. Speeches about the same clichéd rubbish we’ve all heard a dozen times before,” Zayn continues, dragging a hand through his hair. “Every best man tells a childhood tale for cheap laughs – “

(Liam doesn’t sink in his seat a little, not at the thought of his own speech about Andy splitting his lip bloodily on Liam’s big wheel or how Andy stole Jade from him just before sixth form for the way everyone giggled excitedly)

“ – and every bride just wants to be some fucking storybook princess,” Zayn says with a cough into a loose fist, from the smoke, sighing. “It’s mental.”

“It’s lovely,” Liam chews out.

Zayn smirks, hair hanging in his glasses, his head still tilted back. “Think so?”

Liam nods quickly, scrunching his nose when Zayn laughs. “It’s about two people happily in love – “

“For now,” Zayn interrupts, cocking his lips up. “Doesn’t always last.”

Liam narrows his eyes, trying not to snarl. “You’re so – like, how c’n you be so. _Christ_. You’re the opposite of positive.”

“Cynical?” Zayn offers, raising his brow.

The annoyed groan in his throat gives way to the cluck of Liam’s tongue when Zayn licks his lips again.

(Because it’s a fucking _distraction_ and it’s dumb. Liam doesn’t find it slightly arousing.)

(His cock, however, thickens just a little at the shininess of those pink, sugary, chewed lips.)

“M’not,” Zayn shrugs, thumping his knuckles on his knee, humming under his breath to the music filling the gaps between their breaths in the cab. “Just not too fond of car wrecks, mate. Tragedies. Not really into brooding over reality when the wedding is over.”

“Because, obviously, it’s all downhill from there, right mate?” Liam mocks, looking away before Zayn can blink back at him. “What a waste of time,” he adds, under his exhale, watching the lights go from crimson to green along the spotted drops on the windows.

“What’s that?”

“Me flat,” Liam says, dry, pulling a few crumpled pounds from his pocket. “This is my stop.” He quickly shoves the money at the cabbie, ignoring the amused glint in his eyes that he shoots Liam in the rearview or the way he wiggles his eyebrows when Zayn shifts in his seat to follow Liam towards the door.

(Admittedly, they probably are a bit humorous – two complete strangers having a row over weddings in the back of a cab, minutes after midnight, on a dreary night.)

(A right BBC sitcom, he thinks, frustrated.)

He stumbles out of the cab, nudging the door close at Zayn’s mild protest. There’s a teasing grin on Zayn’s lips as he stretches his neck to peek his head out of the window.

“Forgot your coat,” Zayn smiles, waving it out the window at Liam.

There’s a rough sigh in Liam’s chest that he downs to spin on his heels, fisting a hand into the fabric of the coat. Zayn gives a small tug and Liam’s helpless (surprisingly, he thinks, because he’s bigger than Zayn) to the momentum that drags him back to the cab.

“Didn’t even get your number,” Zayn whispers.

“I didn’t offer,” Liam counters, jerking on the sleeve of the coat.

He’s a bit lost on Zayn’s sharp jawline and his loose lips and this earthy tone to his eyes under the lights but that doesn’t soften the scowl on his face when Zayn doesn’t immediately let go.

His eyes crinkle just a little from his stretched smile when Zayn says, “So this is, like, I dunno. It’s a _thing_ f’r you?”

Liam cocks an eyebrow at him, softening his hold on the jacket.

“The whole weddings thing?” Zayn offers, biting a corner of his bottom lip. “You really believe in it?”

Liam sighs quietly, his lips involuntarily sliding into a pout.

“Why shouldn’t I?”

Zayn shrugs and his fingers finally uncurl from Liam’s wrinkled jacket. “Love is a lot more than fancy gowns and horrible starters and overpriced champagne, mate. ‘s not, like, an occasion, y’know?”

Liam tuts softly, backing away. “And this coming from a – “

“A writer,” Zayn beams.

Liam’s laugh echoes in the almost noiseless street. He sucks in a sharp breath when Zayn shoots him an indignant look and bows teasingly as Zayn slumps back into his seat.

“Nice meeting you, Zayn,” he huffs, turning on his heels again and stomping towards his building.

“So will you be busy next Saturday? Another blissful mockery of love with cheesy suits and dreadful dancing?” Zayn shouts and Liam flinches at the smile he can hear in Zayn’s voice.

“I’ve gotta go. G’night,” he mumbles back, waving blindly towards the cab while trying to knock through the front door of his building.

“Hope to see you again soon, Leeyum!”

Liam quickly shoves the door closed and slouches against the cold metal surface, sighing loudly in the lobby. There’s no one around (there never really is, something he likes about this quiet, old building) when his lips start to twitch (once, twice) into a defenseless little smile.

Instantly, he hates himself for it but he can’t help it.

He’s never really been into cynical or broody lads with nice cheeks and sharp eyes. And Zayn, well, he’s a perfect example. He should be _Exhibit A_ in the case of boys Liam will never like but –

Liam groans softly, cursing lowly, shuffling his feet on the dirty tile in the lobby. He bites the inside of his lip and tries not to think about that earnest little hint of _something_ in Zayn’s eyes.

(Because he’ll never see that boy again and Niall is completely wrong – he’s not helplessly single.

It’s intentional.

Liam is just waiting on – well, not on clever, moody lads like Zayn.)

 

+++

 

Liam loves his flat.

Niall calls it _cozy_ , like it’s meant to be an insult, but Liam adores it.

It’s a bit tiny, if he’s being honest, but it suits him with its walls painted a dull canary and the simple kitchenette and fridge stocked with more vitamin water and frozen dinners than anything of substance. The floors are freezing in the winter, the nights too warm during the short summers.

He’s got old cinema posters hanging from most of the walls (not to cover the holes or the cracks, but, well, sort of) and a comfy couch, an old lounge chair, a rather plain telly with a castle of DVD’s, comic books surrounding it.

A soft bed on a minimalist frame, old cross country trophies collecting dust in a corner. Worn, nicely framed family pictures (nothing fancy, nothing too recent, only one photo of him and his mum when he was a toddler, curled in her warm arms) on a bookshelf.

Liam towels at his damp hair after a long shower (he adores the way the pelting water always relaxes his muscles, how the temperature never goes too cold too fast) while stumbling into the lounge.

Loki is quick on his heels, panting and shuffling around Liam’s feet.

(It’s a bit sad, he’s sure, but Loki’s all that he’s got outside of Niall. Just a faithful pup with sharp eyes, soft fur and an eager bark anytime he hears Liam’s keys jingling in the door.)

“Missed me, babe?” Liam smiles, dumping the towel in the archway, scratching at his belly through his faded X-Men shirt.

Loki barks happily, chasing his own tail, following Liam all the way to the sofa.

Liam laughs gently, scrubbing a hand into his hair, snapping the worn waistband of his old boxers (his favorite pair with the cartoonish Batman and loose threads around the elastic) before flopping down on the sofa. He quickly makes room for Loki, scratching behind an ear until Loki calms and settles into Liam’s hip.

London is a quiet beacon from here, the hazy view from his living room window masked by sheer curtains, a soft warm night humming through the cracked window.

Liam grins, cocking his head at Loki. Glassy dark eyes stare back up at him.

“You’d marry me, right babe?” Liam asks after a quiet sigh.

Loki ducks his head, hides his eyes under a paw and Liam garbles a laugh in his throat. He flicks one of Loki’s ears, shaking his head.

“Prat,” he mumbles and Loki whimpers softly, snuggling closer.

He considers flipping on the telly, boring himself on reality television until he’s too drowsy to care but –

Under his skin, still flash hot in his blood, he can feel the buzz from the wedding. From the romance of it all.

(and, secretly, he still thinks about Zayn’s words and he just wants to forget every last one of them)

Liam stretches to yank an old copy of the Times from his coffee table (some half-finished furniture from IKEA that Niall helped – well, _watched_ – him put together one Saturday over a footy match and beers). It still wobbles from too much weight and Liam’s certain Niall lost some of the bolts somewhere under the sofa but he doesn’t complain.

It’s just another neat little misfit in Liam’s life.

(and he loves it, like all of the other pieces that don’t quite fit)

“S’ppose we’ll just have to settle for the best part of our day, yeah?” Liam grins, discarding the business and sports sections until he finds what he wants – _Commitments_.

His lips quirk up immediately. He tugs his feet up on the couch, settles into the ratty old cushions, sighs contently while scanning the paper for his favorite writer – _Z. Javadd_.

Liam stretches out some on the couch, letting Loki crawl up and curl into a ball of warmth over Liam’s belly. He tips his head onto the arm of the couch, grinning like mad, tracing his eyes over the headline –

**_‘A daydream in a snow globe – couple marries under a sky of snow near Hyde Park’_ **

Liam bites down gently on his bottom lip. He hums happily, running his index finger under all of the words as he reads –

 _‘Thoreau said_ “there is no remedy for love but to love more” _and on a snowy afternoon, hours from Valentine’s Day and seconds from a lifetime of incredible moments, two childhood lovebirds couldn’t agree more – there will never be another remedy. Another cure. Nothing except this warm, mad love between them.’_

He exhales delicately. This is all Liam needs. He sucks softly on his bottom lip and keeps reading until his eyes grow heavy, until that buzz under his skin goes calm, calm, calm.

(And he reads the article four times, smiling wider each time, until he falls asleep without Zayn’s absolutely mental words in his head.)

 

+++

 

(Liam wouldn’t call it an _obsession_ , but Niall does –

Maybe he fancies Z. Javadd and all of his magical words a bit much.

The way he’s been filling the Commitments section – and Liam’s too big heart – of the Times for more than a year now. The images he creates with all of his words, the way he makes even the worst wedding ideas sound like a late summer night at a carnival.

But it’s not weird, Liam thinks, to have a favorite writer. Because Niall is still a bit obsessed with all of the Harry Potter books and even Andy is a bit madly dedicated to the Geoff Johns era of Green Lantern.

And it’s not creepy that he has a few old clippings tapped to his fridge, a collection of newspapers stacked in his bedroom.

It’s just that, well, Liam loves the way he writes.

He loves that feeling in the pit of his stomach, the fuzzy static in his veins, the way his heart speeds up when Javadd uses a word Liam’s never quite heard of –

And he thumbs through his phone, pulling up Google, penciling in every new word into his tiny, worn notebook he carries everywhere with its definition in horrible writing.

“It’s a _diary_!” Niall shouted at him one day and Liam, promptly, ignored him for a week afterwards.

Well, he tried to but Niall is wholly charming and a bit dreamy and so fucking funny that Liam forgives him after a few hours.

But it’s not an obsession.

Liam is not a creeper who stalks Facebook or Google just for a grainy photo of this writer – there aren’t any, not that he’s checked nearly every day for the past year – who scrawls pretty words to newsprint and injects this helpless feeling into Liam’s blood.

He’s just a bit of a fan. An _avid_ follower.

Honestly, he’s some poor sod who dreams about Javadd dedicating a whole page in the Times to Liam’s own wedding one day – when Liam actually finds someone to fall in love with, first.

But he’ll never admit that out loud to anyone.

“You’re in denial,” Niall tells him one day over coffee.

Liam remembers flipping Niall off with a fond smile while still reading one of Javadd’s articles, footing the bill – and an extra biscuit for Niall – just to silence that dumb grin on Niall’s face.

Still, it’s not an obsession. Not like Niall labels it.

It’s a – Liam hasn’t quite found a word he’s fond of yet but he’s certain he’ll find it in one of Javadd’s articles one day and he’ll use it. Properly. After looking up its definition on Google first.)

 

+++

 

“Fuck,” Niall groans happily, plopping down on Liam’s desk, knocking over a chipped mug filled with pens and Sharpies, “Y’ever just, like, spent a whole weekend shagging? Like ‘till it _hurts_ , mate?”

Liam rolls his eyes instantly, leaning back in his chair with a soft smile.

“Not recently.”

Niall shoots him a doubtful look – alright, _not ever_ , but Liam’s too sober for dumb confessions and it’s only half nine in the morning – before winking at Liam.

“It’s a bloody brilliant idea,” Niall hums, tipping his head back, swinging his feet lazily, “until you can’t quite get it up for a proper farewell blowie in the morning.”

“S’that why you’re late?” Liam wonders, casually gathering up the spilled pens, dumping everything back into the mug.

Niall shrugs casually, sniffing. “Am I ever on time on Mondays?”

Or any day, Liam thinks, grinning affectionately when Niall peeks down at him.

He’s wearing a wrinkled version of his wedding suit, lipstick smeared on the collar, a barely knotted tie, a hint of some lacy knickers peeking from his trousers –

Liam blushes for Niall, looking away quickly when Niall’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Couldn’t find me pants and she wasn’t all that bothered by it,” he says, licking out a shameless smile when Liam wrinkles his face.

“You’re horrible,” Liam laughs, poking at Niall with a Sharpie, rolling his eyes when Niall yawns a response.

“And you’re shit at your job, bro,” he huffs, hopping off the desk, stretching for a long minute.

Liam fakes a pout, flipping Niall off when he smirks.

It’s mostly true, Niall’s words. Liam knows he’s not very good at his job – working as an assistant to some young, posh owner of a sports agency. It takes him a half-hour to type up an e-mail, another hour to fix all of his grammar mistakes. He’s fairly decent at answering calls (when he’s not accidentally hanging up on clients by pressing the wrong buttons) and he doesn’t get many complaints on his coffee (and not many requests for a second cup, either).

He knows he’s lucky. He barely finished his degree at university – in music engineering, which hasn’t paid off much – and a struggling student with no administrative skills isn’t exactly the ideal employee. He’s aware.

(He’s _grateful_ is what he is and he’s never been daft at how hard he has to try to compete with everyone else here.)

But maybe there was something in his nervous smile, his sweaty palms, the wobble in his voice on that horribly rainy Tuesday when he interviewed at the Rogue (in one of his dad’s old suits with a coffee stain on the cuff, a smeared resume, a dodgy buzz cut).

Liam’s never been quite sure but –

Well, he _hopes_ someone sees his potential.

Someone like Louis Tomlinson –

(He hates the way, nearly two years later, his heart still beats manically at Louis’ name and the thought of his sharp blue eyes and his wild smile, how smart he looks in a half-suit leaning over his desk while going over publication ideas with Niall.)

(Liam is an absolute disaster at the idea of Louis possibly seeing something great in him, even if he is a shit personal assistant.)

(And maybe he’s a little bit madly in love with Louis too, but he doesn’t think Louis notices. No one really notices, he hopes, except for Niall but Niall is polite about it. For the most part.)

“Did you leave your number with her this time?” Liam wonders with his chin perched on his knuckles.

Niall scoffs a laugh, shagging out his already ruined hair.

“Gave her me Twitter name.”

“Asshole,” Liam sneers with a giggle.

Niall shrugs, unaffected. He’s not a bloody wanker, Liam knows it. It’s just – Niall has rules about these things.

A _‘fuck and done’_ policy that Liam could never relate to. Not entirely. But he only gives Niall shit about it for the fumbling smile Niall will give him later on, when it’s just them, as he talks about possibly (or accidentally) falling in love one day.

“So no date for this weekend then?” Liam wonders, paging through a few files he hasn’t put away yet.

Niall cocks up an eyebrow, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth.

Liam snorts, shaking his head. “Cher. From graphic design? The office is throwing her a goth-urban engagement party.”

“Fuck me,” Niall groans.

Liam sputters into his cardboard cup of tea, his nose and eyes crinkling with his smile.

“What sort of shit is that?” Niall pouts.

Liam shrugs carelessly, humming into his tea. “She’s a bit punk. A bit hip hop. She wanted to be different or summat.”

Niall twirls a finger into the air, unenthusiastically. “Sounds like shit.”

Liam licks the sugary taste of honey and tart orange-spice from his lips. “The whole lot of us who planned it – “

“ _You_ planned it, Li,” Niall corrects, leaning over Liam’s desk. “Quit giving those other wankers credit.”

He blushes, only faintly, dropping his eyes. Softly, he whispers, “She asked for me help.”

Niall’s lips quirk high and he reaches out to ruffle Liam’s neat hair.

“Can’t ever say no, c’n ya?” he wonders, tilting his head and the sun spills into the office floor like transparent wings, ghosting over all of the surfaces.

Liam wrinkles his face at Niall. “I can.”

“Didn’t ye plan Jesy’s hen night?”

Liam nods stiffly.

“And helped pick out the invites to Cal’s wedding six months ago?”

“His fiancée worked two desks down from us,” Liam whines, swatting Niall’s hand from his hair. “Couldn’t be a complete tosser about it.”

Niall rolls his eyes, still smiling goofily. “And when _Paul_ – “

“Paul from security was an absolute godsend to us and y’know it,” Liam scowls.

“Point taken,” Niall agrees, messing up a stack of papers on Liam’s desk, grinning when Liam tries to reorganize them. “Still, I’m right, mate. Admit it.”

“Fuck off,” Liam whispers, blushing, smiling defenselessly.

(Niall might be his favorite person, without question, but that doesn’t make him any less of a twat, Liam thinks.)

“I’m getting better,” Liam says, half-pleadingly with his shoulders tight around his neck when Niall puckers his lips, doubtingly.

Niall waggles his eyebrows, sighing, “You’re gettin’ there, Payno. Still a bit of a sucker for – “

“Clark Kent!”

Liam’s lips lift instantly. He pushes back from his desk, this flame-hot energy licking at his veins, this throb in his heart. He’s barely on his feet, nudging by Niall, arms spread for a sprinting little girl with cobalt eyes like the ocean floor, uneven and tangled pigtails, pink cheeks to match her swinging scarf and glow in the dark trainers.

“Hey princess,” Liam sighs, the wind knocked out of him when she leaps up into his arms.

They spin, dizzily, knocking over a few more items on Liam’s desk, laughing recklessly with their foreheads pressed together.

“Missed ya,” she murmurs, tiny hands carding through his hair.

“You too Penny,” Liam grins, balancing her on one forearm, puffing a breath to knock her fringe out of her eyes.

She giggles, a small hand flicking at his nose.

“ _Jesus_ ,” Niall exhales, leaning back on his heels, smiling at them. “You two look like a right pair – “

“Penny, haven’t I told you ‘bout jumping on our sweet Mr. Payne like that?”

Whatever stitch of oxygen that fills Liam’s lungs the moment he recovers from Penny attacking him slowly sinks out of his body when Louis casually walks into view.

Penny giggles into his ear, still tugging at his hair. “So-sorry, papa.”

Louis smiles softly, fussing with the cuffs of his shirt and Liam –

It’s so fucking cliché, he thinks. It’s that moment in every film where you sort of lose your breath on some unapologetically brilliant person. That daydream sequence. The hard knock of your heart behind your ribs and the flush to your skin and –

Louis is _that_ moment. He’s sharp blue eyes, a clever sort of smile that’s half-teasing, three-fourths genuine. He’s a clean suit, perfectly knotted tie, expensive watch with hair that’s half-styled because he needs to look _casual_ here. Approachable, Liam thinks, even if he’s anything but. A clean jaw and a button-up the color of a clear sky, a neat waistcoat –

Liam looks down shyly when Louis smirks at him.

“But he’s Clark Kent, papa,” Penny huffs and Liam feels the blush run all over.

Louis quirks an eyebrow, playfully reaching out to pat Liam’s shoulder.

“She’s still a bit hung up on you being Superman for her birthday party, I s’ppose,” he mumbles and Liam blinks up with the kind of dumb smile he hates on anyone else.

(Including _himself_ – fucking hell.)

Liam shrugs nonchalantly, rubbing calm circles into Penny’s back.

“It was fun,” he whispers, biting at his lip.

Louis nods slowly, lips sliding sideways and mocking. “You fancy running ‘round in tights much, Liam?”

Liam sinks his laugh into Penny’s shoulder and his skin pinks automatically, feeling flustered and numb around his bones.

“Not really – “

“Christ, you’ve got to be feckin’ kiddin’ me – “

Liam stomps quickly on Niall’s foot, shooting him a rough glare that Niall ignores when Louis breathes out a soft laugh.

“Sorry, mate,” Louis says quickly, rubbing a sympathetic hand on Liam’s shoulder, pulling back to fist his hands into his pockets, grinning. “Just taking the piss.”

Liam swallows loudly, nodding. He chokes off a laugh that feels false, forced but Louis’ eyes light up a bit like rioting stars and Liam’s skin goes crimson at the effect.

“Well,” Niall whistles, discreetly nudging Liam until he stops _staring_ (fucking bullshit, he thinks, embarrassed) and Liam carefully lowers Penny to the ground, helping her fix her scarf. “She’s getting quite big.”

“I’m four now!” Penny announces, a wide smile that shows off her missing teeth and dusty pink freckles over her nose.

Louis garbles a laugh, patting her head. “Quite a bit like her father, yeah? Loud just like me.”

“You’re not loud,” Liam corrects quickly, flushing when Louis snorts. “You’re just excited about things, ‘s all.”

Niall groans teasingly behind Liam’s shoulder and he retaliates with a quick, sharp elbow to Niall’s ribs.

Louis shoots them a curious smile while Penny spins happily under his palm, a clumsy ballerina with goofy faces, humming silly tunes and Louis smirks down at her for a long moment –

(Admittedly, it’s just another check on the _Things to Love About Louis Tomlinson_ list that Liam thinks he made after his first day here –

The way he loves his daughter. The unashamed way Louis brings Penny to the offices, lets her kip on his sofa while he’s in meetings, wrinkles his suits to sit on the carpeting in his office for silly tea parties they always invite Liam to.

This contagiously fond smile he gives her when she fumbles through her ABC’s.

The shirts stained in chocolate that he embarrassingly passes Liam to take to the dry cleaners, smiling at the floor like he’s abashed but Liam –

He’s certain his heart isn’t really supposed to move at that pace. Or that he’s not supposed to fall in love with his boss. His young, clever, funny boss who happens to have started a sports advertising agency just out of university – off his parents’ funds, but still – with a toddler still in diapers and a broken heart from a relationship he doesn’t really chat about.

But Liam’s not really keeping count of these things.)

(And he doesn’t have an actual _list_ , on the back of his wall calendar, in his bathroom, with anatomically incorrect hearts around all of the other things he loves about Louis.)

Fucking hell.

“Well, right then, business stuff, eh?” Louis suggests, nudging Penny towards his office. “The Rovers won this weekend so, like, we should keep pushing our ideas to get them more endorsements, yeah?”

“Sounds brilliant,” Liam hums, grinning hard enough that his cheeks ache.

Niall rolls his eyes in the background, clearing his throat roughly.

“Oh, um, right,” Liam stammers, turning to gather a few files from his desk, shoving them towards Louis. “I’ve already booked you a coffee date with a few members of their board. Dinner with some suits trying to push a merger with a cricket club looking for advertising – “

“Sounds dreadful,” Louis groans.

“ – Tom Daley is quite interested in our swimwear campaign,” Liam adds.

Louis wiggles his eyebrows, following Penny towards his glass-box of an office. “Of course.”

“Beers with a new sports drink company on Thursday,” Liam continues.

“Need a suit,” Louis sighs.

“Already rung up Harrods,” Liam smirks and Niall rattles out a laugh from behind. “I think I’ve almost got that e-mail worked out for the Japanese endorsers you needed – “

“Last Wednesday?” Louis grins over his shoulder.

Liam squirms with flushed cheeks, nodding slowly.

Louis tips his head back with a laugh (and no, Liam doesn’t find it _charming_ but, well, he does) and steps over Penny’s collection of coloring books in the middle of his office floor.

“Caroline already took care of it, Li,” he replies with a wink, reclining into his chair behind a massive glass desk.

“Oh. Right. Sorry,” Liam stumbles, rocking on his heels.

“S’okay,” Louis giggles, toeing off his shoes before kicking his feet up on the desk, staring up at the ceiling. “You’re still brilliant, even if you’re quite horrible at being an assistant.”

Liam winces, only a little, fumbling out a smile his teeth instinctively bite at, this hot breath of oxygen in his chest leaving him a bit dazed.

“Join me for the drinks thingy on Thursday?” Louis requests, looking bored with his head still cocked back.

Liam swallows slowly, still teetering on his heels. “Um, can’t. I mean, I’d love to, but – “

(He absolutely hates the way Niall snickers behind him, rubbing teasing fingers over the small of Liam’s back, half-humming some old Frank Sinatra tune just to taunt Liam.)

“I’m helping Paddy – well, _Patrick_ , from personnel – plan some last minute details for his wedding,” Liam sighs, his tongue heavy in his mouth. “The one in a few weeks? You said you’d come by? I already ordered up your gift from Selfridges – quite tasteful choice, I promise.”

Louis lifts his eyebrows, humming. “Yep. Got it. All sorted, I s’ppose.”

(Liam exhales softly, his heart slowing just enough, that lightheaded feeling drifting.)

“Everyone ‘round here is getting married these days,” Louis smirks, toying with his cuffs again, peeking down at Penny kicking her feet back and forth as she colors dramatically outside of the lines. “I reckon I should get a move on, yeah? Find me a right nice lad to propose to?”

Liam freezes. His fingers tingle sharply at his side and his heart starts up again – louder, heavier – behind his ribs. He can’t swallow and he stares just a little too hard –

(Louis isn’t huge on secrets.

He was quite content, _upfront_ honestly, showing off his affection for blokes to the staff, to the world. A fit lad from Paris at his side at one of their holiday parties. A few dates with a snobbish bloke last spring. Holding hands in the papers with some charming university guy at a Starbucks a few weeks back.

They never come with names Liam remembers. They never hold Louis’ attention long.

None of them really fit Louis.

Not in the way Liam thinks they _should_ – with the same interests or passions or the slightest interest in Penny.

They’re all a bit for show, Liam reckons. All a bit forgettable after a few dates. Maybe for a good shag? And Liam doesn’t sit at his desk or in his flat, the least bit jealous of any of them because he thinks Louis’ just passing the time, really –

Because none of them feel like a _‘last stop to happiness’_ like _he could be_ for Louis and – fucking hell.)

Niall pinches his hip and Liam shakes out of that incredibly fond stare with wide eyes, a slack jaw, a heart too loud in his chest.

“You’ve – I mean, like, you’ve plenty of time for things like that,” Liam laughs, nervously, chewing the skin of his lower lip raw.

Louis smiles gently, nodding. “S’why I love you Liam. Always know the right things t’ say.”

Liam turns, shyly, sulking a bit when Niall knocks their shoulders and carefully escorts Liam out of the office.

“I love you, too,” Liam whispers, under his breath, and Niall waits a whole five steps from Louis’ office to smack Liam’s bum roughly.

“Hey!”

“Y’needed that,” Niall warns, smirking, shaking his head with a laugh when Liam scowls at him. “Get your head out of his arse, sunshine.”

Liam rolls his eyes, sucks in his bottom lip, snorts a sigh as he falls back into his chair behind his desk.

Niall leans over his desk, teasing out a grin with bright eyes. “ _So_ ,” he starts in that singsong voice Liam sort of loves ( _only on Niall_ ) before he asks, “What time is the Cher shit-fest?”

Liam giggles, shuffling a few files around on his desk, peeking behind his laptop. He knits his eyebrows together, discouraged, biting harshly on his bottom lip. He feels something knot in his stomach, a neon panic in his chest, before he slouches down in his chair.

“I can’t find my – _where the fuck_ ,” he whines in a rough voice. “Have you seen my notebook? Y’know, the one? ‘S where I keep all of my – like, it’s my notebook, man.”

Niall rolls his eyes, leaning back. “How does a disorganized lad like y’self manage to keep a job as an assistant, mate?” he teases, shrugging when Liam flips him off.

He strolls away, still humming Frank Sinatra and Liam shuts his eyes to settle the frustration sinking into his bones.

“Fucking hell.”

 

+++

 

(His first real wedding was just before sixth form.

He remembers without trying – his cousin, Collin, proposing to some university sweetheart that Liam’s whole family adored.

Colin had an awful row with his best man three days before the wedding and his aunt caught a bug, too poorly to book a proper wedding singer or make flower arrangements.

And Liam remembers Colin, on a stoop, draining his fourth London Pride, ruffling Liam’s horrible curls and whispering about how love doesn’t make arrangements – it doesn’t need a perfect day or a clear sky or a proper ceremony.

But, on pure reflexes and courage, Liam offered to help.

He nicked the best man’s suit from the tailor – oversized, the sleeves crawling over Liam’s knuckles, the trousers too long – and pricked his fingers bloody while stealing an armful of roses from the neighbor’s backyard and belted his best rendition of some old Justin Timberlake tune during the ceremony.

Liam kept the ring for Colin, gave a stammering toast at the reception, and stood tall next to Colin for all of the photos.

Colin called him a hero, over a glass of champagne and in front of a room full of smiling faces.

“The _best man_ for the job, mate.”

And Liam beamed stupidly for hours afterwards, too restless in his single to fall asleep.

Under a half-lit moon, in his windowsill, he scribbled it all in a notebook. Just some silly unused thing his mum left him when he was a toddler. A sort of _‘goodbye’_ gift he didn’t recognize then.

He remembers, hours after the wedding, writing out all of his ideas. Wedding plans. Venue ideas. A playlist of his favorite tunes and the ones he thinks his parents would’ve danced to.

And every wedding since then, he scrawls it all in – the dates, the vows, the next wedding, the stag parties and his favorite cake shops. Every little moment to call his own.

He’s a bit sentimental, too caught up in that glow in the dark feeling of creating something magical for someone else – but it’s all _his_.

Scribbled messily in a notebook.)

 

+++

 

“Drinks and footy on Friday, yeah?” Niall offers, sprawled across Liam’s couch with a box of greasy pizza balanced on his belly, lips quirking around the mouth of his beer bottle. “Man United is playing. You love them, yeah? Maybe we could go on a pull afterwards.”

Liam smiles, rolling his eyes, folding up lemony scented laundry from days ago.

“Can’t,” he replies, tossing a ball of socks at Niall when he frowns. He laughs, bright and loud, adding, “Harry’s coming into town. Sounds important.”

Niall snorts. “It never really is.”

Liam scoffs, stealing a slice of pizza and smiling at the way Niall licks the grease from his fingers.

“He’s family,” Liam hums, shuffling around Loki, peeling the cheese away with a grin. He feeds it to Niall when he flops down on the couch, letting Niall snuggle his head into Liam’s lap.

“He’s your spoiled little bro – “

“Step-brother,” Liam corrects, kicking his feet up onto uneven the coffee table.

“Whatever,” Niall mumbles, squinting at the ceiling. “He’s a bit of a prat whenever he comes around. And ye wait on him, hand and foot – “

“I do not,” Liam argues (even if it’s a lie) before nicking a few pepperonis from Niall’s next slice. “It’s just, well. He needs me. Older brother stuff and all.”

Niall groans, swallowing a mouthful of beer, scrunching his face at Liam. “Rubbish, Li. You’re barely two years ‘part, mate. He needs to steal your bed for another drunken shag is all the arsehole needs.”

Liam pinches Niall’s shoulder with a mocking laugh.

“Was one time – “

“Left the condom in the bin,” Niall reminds him. “Cigarette burns in your sheets. Dirty socks by the headboard. Borrowed your favorite shirt – “

“Alright,” Liam moans, flicking Niall’s nose. “He’s a mess. I get it. He’s still me little bro.”

“Step-bro,” Niall beams.

Liam definitely hates Niall, no reasoning needed.

“He’s getting better,” Liam sighs, more to himself than Niall, slouching into the worn cushions of his sofa, eyeing Niall as he lets Loki lick a few pepperonis from his palm.

Niall wipes the grease along Liam’s shredded jeans ( _the bastard_ ) before snatching a copy of the Times from the coffee table, shooting Liam an upside down smirk that Liam immediately blushes at.

“Still in love with him, yeah?”

Liam rolls his eyes but doesn’t bother prying Niall’s greasy fingers from the newspaper article (surrounded by a horribly drawn red Sharpie heart, the _‘Z. Javadd’_ underlined, for fuck’s sake) this time. He exhales quietly instead, tilting his head.

“He writes good stuff,” Liam argues, gently, unconvincingly. “He did this brilliant piece the other day on a lovely couple who’d been together ten years. She’s a doctor, her new wife is a teacher – really emotional stuff, man.”

“Sap,” Niall snickers softly.

Liam frowns and drags his knuckles over Niall’s scalp in revenge.

“Think one of t’ese days he’ll write about your wedding day?” Niall asks with this lilting softness, affection that curls around Liam’s spine.

He shrugs, ignores the prickling goosebumps up his arms at the thought.

“It’d be sweet,” he replies, his voice low.

Niall hums his approval. “You’re gonna make someone a right perfect husband, Li. Some lucky lad. With nice hair. A good sense of humor, I s’ppose.”

“Who loves comic books,” Liam adds, chuckling. He cards kind fingers through Niall’s thick hair, loving the way it shifts from peroxide white to dark roots.

“A good bloke,” Niall agrees, closing his eyes, smirking. “Someone not named Louis Tomlinson, hopefully.”

Liam pouts for a half-second but it quickly fades at Niall’s noisy laugh and he swears, under his breath, Niall is the worst kind of best mate.

He bites along his lip, containing his smile, and follows along as Niall quietly reads the article in a thick, put upon accent that soothes all of Liam’s thoughts –

_‘ **A Sunset to Remember:** two old flames reignite their bonfire of love under a kaleidoscope sky of colors and London stars in the sort of wedding even her Majesty would envy.’_

 

+++

 

It’s half two in the morning and the pounding on the door (and in Liam’s head) refuses to stop.

He fumbles in the dark, blindly cutting on the lights, yawning before yanking open the front door of his flat to messy curls, live wire green eyes, the same cheeky smile Liam’s sighed at since he was nine years old and Harry Styles stumbled up with his mum on their old stoop.

“You’re late,” Liam huffs, still yawning, stretching in the doorway.

“Sorry,” Harry mumbles, pushing the curls out of his face, nudging past Liam. “I met these lovely water polo teammates on my flight. We went dancing. Had drinks.”

Liam drags a hand down his face, groaning softly.

“We just lost track of the time,” Harry beams, his voice this dragging slowness that’s always sort of annoyed Liam. He flops onto the couch, his bags left in the hallway, his boots already kicked off by the door.

“Course,” Liam sighs, the exhaustion still heavy on his shoulders.

He blinks away the sleep before dragging his feet into the hall, yanking Harry’s bags inside.

“But they were _so fit_ , Liam, I swear,” Harry swoons, giggling. “Kept trying to chat me up. Get me back to their beautiful suite.”

Liam coughs a laugh into his shoulder, shaking his head.

“Couldn’t be bothered?”

Harry smirks, his loose shirt already half undone, swollen pink bruises decorating the ink around his collarbones.

“Wasn’t in the mood or summat,” he shrugs, dragging a thumb over his lips like he’s wiping off his smugness. “’Sides, I couldn’t pass up coming to see my favorite bro.”

“You’re _only_ bro. Step-bro,” Liam reminds him, shuffling around the lounge, still yawning. “At half two in the morning. In the middle of the week.”

“Is it that late?” Harry wonders, sounding almost affronted. Almost. “I didn’t even notice.”

(Liam thinks Harry’s never noticed civil things like that.)

“Yeah, well, sorted,” Liam groans, stretching, cringing at the loud crack in his joints. “Bedtime. Work in the morning.”

“Oh, gross,” Harry frowns, turning onto his side, curling up.

(He’s too tall, all lithe muscles and long limbs, but he’s still that awkward little boy Liam remembers climbing into his single after an awful nightmare, taking up too much room with Liam shoved against the wall and a cramped neck for the rest of the night.)

“Who bothers with work nowadays, Li,” he adds mid-yawn, batting his eyes. “It’s _London_. Work is for nerds.”

Liam rolls his eyes, a half-smile already on his lips. “Or those of us who have to pay to live in a flat. Who need to eat daily. The nerds who offer up their sofas for bratty little bros?”

“Step-bro,” Harry giggles, sounding a bit drunk and lazy. “Nerds who offer up their massive beds for adorable – “

“That’s quite debatable,” Liam argues with a grin.

“ – little bros to stretch out on. Sounds brilliant.”

“Not happening,” Liam says sternly (even if he’s never been anything like that with Harry) while crossing his arms. “You smell. You snore too. And I need sleep. Loads of it.”

“But _Leeymo_ ,” Harry whines and Liam almost breaks.

He balls his hands into fists, frowning, turning away from Harry’s wide, pleading eyes. He ignores Harry’s sniffing, dropping his chin, stumbling over the cold floor.

“Not tonight, Haz,” he whispers, waving Harry off, rubbing at his eyes. “Not in a mood.”

“You’re always in a mood,” Harry calls and Liam kicks his door closed with a sigh.

Honestly, he’s getting better at telling people _‘no’_ when he needs to.

 

+++

 

(Harry crawls into his bed just before sunrise and Liam, begrudgingly, doesn’t kick him out. He makes room under the sheets, groans when Harry steals most of the pillows, and watches the blinking angry red numbers on his alarm clock until he falls back asleep.

For thirty minutes before his alarm barks at him.

But he’s getting much better at this, he swears.)

 

+++

 

“Leeymo!”

Liam yawns loudly over a half-touched plate of cheesy fry up and burnt bacon. He’s mostly dressed in the kitchenette, staring blankly at a cold cup of strong brew until his eyes are drowsy again. He drags a palm over his face, still only half-awake, his skin still a little flushed from a hot shower.

Harry’s spread out like a dead starfish on the sofa, an ink-stained forearm over his eyes, shirtless with this whine in his voice like he’s ten years old again.

“Shut it,” Liam mumbles, dragging his fork through his eggs. “Too early.”

Harry whimpers, kicking his feet. “Do we have any tea?”

Liam grunts a response, sighing.

Loki’s circling the sofa, amusingly, panting and grunting at Harry like he’s plopped right into Loki’s _territory_. His castle. Liam laughs quietly, patting his thigh until Loki scurries up, snuggling to Liam’s bare feet.

“I want chai,” Harry moans.

Liam rolls his eyes, smiling.

It’s not that Harry is _pretentious_ (well, he is, but not naturally) but he’s become a bit _‘difficult’_ (Liam thinks it sounds much more polite than _asshole, wanker, snob_ ) since he was sixteen. When his mum divorced Liam’s dad, packed up most of their stuff, moved out to Los Angeles to start over.

He’s sun-kissed skin and loads of meaningless tattoos and Ray Bans even when the sun’s not out. Fancy teas and flip-flops and half-buttoned shirts. He likes skinnies, weird hats, rings on almost every finger and he’s nothing like that kid with messy curls and hoodies Liam remembers growing up with.

“We don’t have any,” Liam grumbles. “I’ve got earl grey and breakfast. _Real_ tea. Not that rubbish you lot out in the States swallow after yoga class.”

Harry grins, lopsided and wide. “Harness you qi, Liam. It’s about wind-water. Deep breaths. Time and space.”

“Fuck off,” Liam smiles, pouting into his knuckles with droopy eyes.

Loki sniffs at his ankles and Liam resigns to fighting off sleep in favor of pulling on a pair of clean socks, fixing his collar in the mirror before shuffling over to the couch.

“You still think about her?” Harry asks, pulling his knees up to make room for Liam, nodding his head to the picture of Liam curled in his mum’s arms.

Liam bites at his lip for a long moment, calming his breaths, trying to stop that little flinch in his fingers at the thought.

“Yeah,” he breathes, looking away.

(He still visits her grave once a year. Always after Valentine’s. Always alone because his dad, bless him, still shakes at the sight and Harry offers, sometimes, but Liam likes it alone. He likes talking to the headstone, dragging his fingers over the cold surface, pretending his eyes aren’t stinging from the tears.)

“Yeah,” Harry repeats, puffing a breath at the ceiling. “Mums are important.”

Liam nods, letting Harry’s feet sit in his lap, wrinkling his brow.

“How’s Anne?”

Harry shrugs noncommittally, smiling. “Still surfing her way through life, I reckon. Up in Malibu. New bloke, I hear. She’s happy. We spent the holidays at mines.”

Liam nods along, dragging his tongue over his dry lips.

“She’s rung up dad a few times,” Harry sighs with a fond smile.

(And Liam can’t hide his own – it’s sort of helpless. The way he gets anytime Harry still calls Geoff his father. The way Harry admits, shamelessly, that Liam’s dad is the only father he’s ever really known. And Liam knows it’s mutual – the way his dad goes on about Harry. The fondness in his voice. His irremovable smile whenever Harry pops in for a visit.)

“Think she’ll ever come back?”

Harry barks a laugh, shoving his curls out of his face – a habit he’s mastered since he was a teen, flirting his way through horrible classes and chatting up pretty girls much older than him in the hallways.

“Not a chance,” he adds in this dragging, deep voice. “She’s quite set. Loves new adventures. I think I get that from her.”

Liam hums softly, rubbing Harry’s feet. “Think so too.”

Harry makes a face at Liam and Liam rumbles out a laugh that Harry, slowly, mimics quietly.

“Nick broke up with me,” Harry admits, soft, this aching vulnerable tone at the back of his throat. “Broke up with me and booted me out of our flat. S’why I came back. To London. He said I was needy and he wasn’t happy anymore.”

“Told you not to trust those big, brown eyes,” Liam half-teases, soothing his fingers around Harry’s ankles until he smiles. “Alright?”

Harry shrugs, still blinking at the ceiling.

“It wasn’t love,” he whispers. “Bloody amazing sex, though. Incredible. Like, he could suck me off so – “

Liam smacks Harry’s feet away, snorting, hauling himself off the sofa.

“Right, well,” he huffs, ignoring the way Harry chatters about handcuffs and positions Liam’s certain he’s never heard of in the background. “Time for work. Y’know, job stuff.”

“Nerd,” Harry grins and Liam waits until Harry is blinking at him before he flicks Harry off with a rough laugh, grabbing his keys from the counter, pulling on his shoes and shuffling out the door.

He’s fairly sure Harry will still be right there – probably eating leftover pizza, flipping through Liam’s _Walking Dead_ collection – when he gets off the Tube this evening.

 

+++

 

The morning is still new, achingly bright like the rays on an ocean’s surface, and Liam’s not expecting to find his notebook on his desk.

His tattered, old notebook with a pretty blue ribbon wrapped around it. With a Batman pen tucked under the bow. A coffee, the way he likes, from that little shop he frequents on lazy Saturdays (the sort of place he thinks you can find a _true love_ , at a tiny corner table, sharing childhood stories and steamy cups of fresh brew) and a warm biscuit. Chocolate chip. Still melting and chewy, the way he loves.

(the kind he thinks about baking himself, in a nice kitchen, with a boyfriend smiling over the countertop, licking the crumbs from a pair of soft lips and his fingers catching on teeth as he feeds someone he hopes to wake up every morning to a mouthful.)

“Nice,” Niall grins, perching on a corner of his desk, reaching for the biscuit. “Somebody is in love with you.”

Liam quickly smacks Niall’s hand away, scowling. “Mine.”

“Twat,” Niall smiles. “Who found it?” he wonders, gesturing towards the notebook.

Liam shrugs, flopping down into his chair, inspecting the ribbon and – there’s no note.

 _Oh_.

“D’you think?” Liam inquires, lifting an eyebrow.

Niall shoots him a curious look and Liam watches him think it through, with scrunched eyebrows and a twitching nose, before Niall laughs.

“C’mon, mate, honestly? Do you really believe that Lou – “

Liam makes a protesting noise, looking around nervously, making sure no one is watching them. None of the office workers every really pay them any mind. Not unless they need something, from Liam, of course. They shuffle around, waving politely, but never stop for a chat.

“Be quiet,” Liam hisses, pinching at Niall’s wrist.

Niall flinches with a frown. “You can’t help y’self, c’n ya? I don’t think he – “

“But there isn’t a note,” Liam huffs, untying the ribbon, smiling down at his small notebook. “Like, maybe? ‘cause he wouldn’t want anyone to, like. I dunno. A bit secretive, innit?”

“A bit _lovesick_ and disgusting,” Niall counters, budging up off Liam’s desk. “Tommo really isn’t that clever, mate.”

Liam chews on his lip, giving Niall a thoughtful look. “So you don’t think, like, _maybe_?”

Niall’s lips curl to respond but the words die in his throat when Louis jogs in, huffing for a breath, stopping just short of Liam’s desk.

He’s bent over, gasping a bit, lips immediately quirking up into a stretched smile when he notices Liam’s eyes on him, which is –

Liam doesn’t mean to. He’s seen Louis a dozen times like this, in a loose t-shirt and baggy shorts and scuffed up trainers with his hair in his eyes. Thick fringe, sweat-damp. He’s tan skin and a nice shine of sweat and eyes like a saltwater sea.

And Liam can’t quite look away.

“Morning,” Louis smirks, stretching, peeling his sticky shirt from his skin.

“Good workout?” Liam asks, eager, blush thick on his round cheeks.

Louis shrugs, dragging his hand down his face to smear away the sweat. “The usual. Told me’self I’d do it more. Less recreational, like. It sounded brilliant.”

“And getting all sweaty in the lobby was, um, part of the plan?” Niall teases, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Are you quite finished?” Louis huffs but his smile doesn’t fade off.

Niall shrugs carelessly, rocking on his heels with his hands shoved into his pockets.

“Bullocks,” Louis laughs, pushing his floppy hair back. He nods at Liam, biting on his lip. “Um, yeah, well – did you like me gift there?”

Something thick and massive gets caught in Liam’s throat and his heart beats a tempo too fast for his lungs and his lips slide into this anxiously wide smile because _‘he couldn’t, he_ wouldn’t _, but maybe he possibly did just for you so smile about it you idiot – ‘_

“I figured,” Louis starts with a one-shouldered shrug, sniffing, “this way you could like, um, well work wherever if you needed. Practice e-mails. There’s a scheduler on there too. Maybe, like. I don’t know – go mad and shit.”

Liam blinks at him for a long minute, confused. His teeth bite little marks into his lower lip and he lowers his eyes to the coffee, the biscuit, his notebook and –

 _Oh_.

He’d missed it. On an opposite corner of his desk. In a tacky red bow like the clerk at the department store wrapped it. _Just for Liam_. A new laptop, a sleek ivory and expensive and –

Liam fusses out a smile, an artificial laugh because – _shit_. It sounds nervous and embarrassed and he hates the way Niall doubles over behind Louis, wheezing out a snicker, with a red face that matches Liam’s sharp crimson one.

(he swears he’s not gutted over it but, well.)

“Of course, like – _wow_. Jesus, thanks mate,” Liam stutters out, patting the laptop gently, his cheeks aching with his put upon grin.

Louis smirks back, nodding. “Heard it’s a proper good brand. Top stuff. Probably c’n get some good free porn or summat, like.”

Liam flushes a sharp pink, dropping his eyes.

“Fuck, that’s not inappropriate, right? Like,” Louis laughs, only slightly flustered, “Shit, I’m horrible at things like that. There ought to be some sort of law, right? For creeps like me, yeah? Bugger.”

Niall snorts, clapping Louis on the shoulder. “Think there is mate. A whole department dedicated to it, innit? A few floors down? Great staff I hear.”

“Sick,” Louis sneers, nudging Niall with an elbow. “Have’ta check it out one day.”

A breathless laugh trails off Liam’s lips and his fingers brush over the cold surface of the laptop, his spare hand wrapped around the coffee and he feels like a right idiot. He can’t believe he thought – fuck. A complete bloody _twit_ , he thinks, shaking his head.

“Right, so,” Niall says with a hand curled over the nape of Louis’ neck, humming and tugging Louis towards his office like he’s offering Liam a way out –

Like he’s providing Liam a distraction because he’s flushed, pink all over, taking liberal sips of his still warm coffee to keep him from sputtering something dumb.

(something he’ll regret immediately because, no, Louis did _not_ buy him coffee or his favorite biscuit or find his notebook and, no, Louis is _not_ in love with him like – )

“Alright?” Louis asks, halfway between his office and Liam’s desk.

His smile is a bit apprehensive, caught on a frown that Liam winces over. He can’t quite stop the way his leg twitches or how tight his fingers curl around that cardboard cup of coffee but he smiles brightly just for Louis.

Always for Louis – bloody idiot.

“Perfect,” he grits through his teeth with an affirming nod.

Louis nods back, slow.

“Don’t forget drinks tomorrow night. We’re celebrating. Sort of a stag night for Aiden,” Liam announces with a stammer he can’t control.

Louis shrugs, his lips shifting crookedly into a grin. “Everyone’s getting married, I swear.”

 _Everyone but us_ , Liam thinks, wincing. He’s daft and he’s grateful Niall yanks Louis away with a pointed glare aimed at Liam.

(And Liam is so thankful for cheeky bastard friends like Niall who know, without saying a word, that Liam needs this moment to himself – to hate himself. To feel like a right idiot. Alone and utterly embarrassed.)

Liam sinks in his chair, letting steamy coffee soothe the rawness in his throat from the words he keeps swallowing. Tiny paper cutout regrets dragging down his larynx.

His phone is buzzing. Its vibrating a Bruno Mars tune next to his new laptop and he lazily fumbles for it. He squints at the unrecognizable number, sighing quietly before answering.

“’ello?”

“Payne. Liam Payne.” The voice isn’t instantly familiar and Liam scrunches his brow, biting at his lip. There’s a soft, scratchy laugh on the other side of the phone, an almost smug smile following. “You didn’t tell me the other night. Had to do some research in your notebook.”

Liam’s eyebrows lift immediately. “You found my – “

“You left it in the cab, you dolt.”

The cab. The other night. And –

“Zayn,” Liam says, stiffly.

“Ah, you remember me? Cheers,” Zayn snorts. “Did you like the coffee?”

Liam stares resolutely at the empty cup squeezed between his fingers, frowning. “ _You_ – you, um, like. You bought the coffee f’r me?”

“And the chocolate chip cookie. Cost me a few pounds,” Zayn replies, his voice raspy like he’s just finished a cigarette. “Pretty brilliant, yeah?”

Liam’s shoulders drop and he groans softly into his palm. He flicks the empty cup over and drags his knuckles over his eyes.

Right – the coffee and the biscuit and the neatly wrapped notebook are from Zayn. And life fucking _hates_ Liam with pretty little bows and his favorite cuppa.

“How’d you – “

“You should really update your Facebook profile,” Zayn suggests, this incessant smugness still swirled around his voice. “I mean, like. You were quite adorable at eighteen, mate. Nice curls.”

Liam flushes a horrible pink, bolting upright, wrinkling his nose. “You stalked my Facebook?”

Zayn laughs breathily on the other end. “Mate, give me a little more credit,” he says, still laughing, “Did some research and found you. Nothing huge. You studied engineering?”

“You’re manic,” Liam huffs.

“And your Tumblr is a bit boring too,” Zayn adds, smiling. “Needs some artwork or summat. I do some pretty sick shit. Could design you some wicked pieces. What’s your password?”

“I’m hanging up,” Liam groans but he squeezes the phone between his fingers.

He listens, a little too intently, to Zayn’s soft breathing and the way his laugh tickles in a rather pleasing way. It’s weird and Liam thinks he’s probably still too drowsy from Harry kicking him in his sleep to think clearly.

“Wait, hold on,” Zayn half-pleads. Liam pauses, sighing loudly. “I was, like, maybe we could meet up? I was hoping, like – “

“Not a chance.”

“C’mon _Leeyum_ ,” Zayn says, his voice a tease and Liam leans over his desk, biting at a smile.

(He’s not even sure why his lips twitch like this, for a boy who’s not his type. Who looks nothing like Louis. Who annoys him uncontrollably.)

“I’m busy,” Liam grunts, thumbing through his notebook. He wrinkles his nose and swallows down a _‘fucking asshole’_ when he finds Zayn’s name and mobile number written in bold, dark Sharpie over a fourth of the pages.

“Did you really – “

“C’mon, mate,” Zayn protests and Liam can still hear his mocking grin in the phone, “I c’n see you’ve got quite a few weddings coming up. Need a date?”

“No.”

“Well, what about just a mate to chill with? I’m loads of fun during the Macarena,” Zayn offers.

“I’d rather swallow glass,” Liam argues, lowering his voice when Niall passes.

“I swallow too,” Zayn grins. “Maybe you need someone to keep you company afterwards? After a few cups of wine? Heard I’m a decent shag, man.”

“You’re insane,” Liam sputters, his cheeks flushed a shiny crimson like the skin of an apple.

Zayn laughs happily through the phone and Liam – he knows he should hang up. He should scurry to the toilets to scream (or have a proper wank because, fuck, it’s been ages since his last shag and Zayn’s voice is starting to soothe that little itch under his skin) but he bites his lip instead.

He blinks down at the still soft, chewy biscuit and picks at it, smiling around his fingers as he licks the crumbs off.

“Just taking the piss, bro,” Zayn sighs. “But I wouldn’t mind meeting up. Just for a chat, maybe? We could chill. Get your mind off of weddings – if you c’n do that.”

“Bugger off,” Liam scowls. “S’not all I think about.”

“Your notebook says otherwise, mate,” Zayn hums.

Liam hangs up. He glares down at his phone with scrunched eyebrows before shoving it away. He finishes the biscuit, guiltily, in minutes and drags a sigh out of his chest.

He’s more than – it’s not all he is.

The weddings. Being the best man. Getting fitted for a new suit every week and protecting the rings and –

He swears he’s more than all of those moments that belong to someone else.

Liam twists his mouth into a frown, his chin on his knuckles, his eyes on that glass square of an office that Louis sits behind. He stares for a long minute at Louis looking out his wall-sized windows over London. Liam chews his bottom lip raw, wounded, blinking away his thoughts.

(It takes him a whole hour before he looks away – before he stops imagining Louis tugging him into the office, his face in Liam’s neck, their hands twisted as they look over the London skyline.

With matching rings on their left hands.)

 

+++

 

The Garage is some upscale bar in the middle of London, with big, comfy furniture, speakers built into the floorboards and a lit up glass bar that shifts colors manically to the throb of the bass music. It’s the sort of place he thinks Cher falls in love with immediately – raging tunes and noise everywhere and just a hint of poor service to scratch up its clean surface.

Liam’s lost Harry somewhere at the entrance, flirting his way to free drinks while Liam greets guests, humors Niall by being a _‘wingman’_ (which, truthfully, Liam is horrible at but Niall seems to think it works) between dull conversations.

“Smashing job, Payner,” Cher cheers, half-drunk, twirling around in her mini with a fresh glass of something neon green. She puckers her lips and Liam obliges happily, offering his cheek for her to smear lipstick on.

“Brilliant choice,” Leigh-Anne, with wild curls and a pantsuit, agrees.

“Always the expert,” Niall grins, swooping an arm around Liam’s shoulders, pinching at his cheek. “Drinks?”

“Keep dreaming, Horan,” Leigh-Anne laughs, dragging Cher off.

“Bugger,” Niall huffs, smiling. “Almost?”

“Almost,” Liam laughs, cheeks pushing at his eyes.

They both know (but they never say it) that Niall is _hopeless_ at chatting up anyone. Not unless they’re drunk. Or desperate. But he has a charm and eyes like streaks of lightning and this crooked grin that people are sort of helpless to.

Liam included.

“Nice selection, Li,” Louis smirks, sidling up with a beer and eyes soft like a new moon, lips that shade of strawberry chapstick Liam remembers from his first crush in primary school.

(She always had a scent of jarred cherries and butterflies in her hair and pinkish cheeks and Louis is something like that – fondly memorable.)

Liam ducks his head, abashed, palming the nape of his neck. He gives a halfhearted shrug that Louis laughs affectionately at, fucking Liam’s hair with his fingers.

“He’s perfect at t’ings like that,” Niall insists, tugging Liam in again, sighing happily when Liam laughs into his neck. “Amazing at planning stuff, this one. Like dates. Incredible date planner. Exceptional.”

Liam yelps gently and bites at Niall’s shoulder. “Stop using big words.”

“Stop fucking up my game,” Niall hisses and they both flinch when Liam stomps on Niall’s foot.

“Really?” Louis wonders, leaning back on his heels, smiling around his beer. “Dates?”

“I, um,” Liam stutters, blushing madly.

“Sensational,” Niall cheers, grinning. “The best if I might say. You oughta find out.”

Louis arches an eyebrow and Liam wants to hide all of his embarrassment in Niall’s stupid raglan shirt (Niall never dresses for the occasion and Liam’s stopped complaining ages ago, because, well, it’s _Niall_ ) but he smiles dopily at Louis instead.

“M’not,” he insists, sighing.

Louis drags a slow tongue over his lips, wriggling his eyebrows.

“Should have you coordinate some of me stuff then, yeah? I’m shit at that,” Louis laughs with a mild shrug. “The last real date I planned consisted of me cooking stuffed chicken and my date ending up pregnant.”

Liam chokes on his iced down Coke and Niall barks out a cackle that floats into the rafters, along with the thump of some Jessie J tune Liam doesn’t quite recognize.

“Mental,” Niall beams, squeezing Liam’s shoulder playfully. “Food and a good shag. Wicked.”

Liam makes a face and hides his eyes from Louis’ for a moment.

“Yeah, well,” Louis shrugs, tugging on his lower lip with his teeth. “Can I get you lot a drink? ‘m in need with this crowd.”

“Get in. Tequila,” Niall cheers. He gives Liam a small shake, encouraging, wriggling his eyebrows and Liam –

He deflates a bit. His blush seeps deep into his cheeks and he quickly shakes his head. “No, no,” he laughs because his tongue can’t wrap around proper words and Louis is _staring_ at him, curious eyebrows shooting up. “Bad idea. Getting pissed and stuff. Plus, y’know, one kidney and all.”

Louis smiles gently, nodding. “Brilliant lad. ‘s one of the many reasons I keep you around, Payne.”

Liam sucks in a quick breath, flinching out a smile. Niall makes a face in his peripheral and Liam considers shoving Niall away but –

“That and you’re kind. Funny. And you’re quite nerdy when it comes to sport, mate,” Louis adds, saluting Liam with his beer. “And look at me – I sound like a right knob. So, I’ll, like. Grab those drinks now, yeah?”

Louis stumbles off with a nervous grin, waving, shoving into the heart of the crowd and Liam nearly follows just to hear the sound of Louis’ voice over the thump of _‘I can’t figure out why I’m so caught up got me feeling it caught up’_ in the background but –

“You fucking _git_ ,” Niall groans, carding fingers into Liam’s hair, gripping the back of his skull. “What have I told ye about lads and buying drinks?”

Liam ignores him with a sweet smile, knocking their hips.

“Something about don’t go ‘round shagging your drunk boss at strange clubs?” he offers.

Niall narrows his eyes, pinching Liam’s stomach. “The opposite,” he hisses, dragging Liam away from the grinding bodies and spilling drinks. “Get fucked. Give ‘im some toe-curling head, mate. Whatever. And then collect a few hundred pounds when the scandal gets out.”

Liam shoves Niall off with a laugh. “You’re a monster.”

“And I’d be a well-paid one too, you dolt,” Niall insists, finishing the last of his sweetly tart cocktail, downing Liam’s Coke also.

Liam laughs into the sleeve of his crisp Oxford, leaning on a table.

“Who knows,” Niall shrugs, scrubbing his hands into his bleached hair to fix it (or ruin it more, Liam’s not too sure) before shaking it out, “He could be into you.”

“You think so?” Liam chokes.

“Hardly,” Niall grins, swatting at Liam’s shoulder. “But least thing you could do is wank him off while he’s drunk ta find out.”

Liam groans obscenely, hip-checking Niall away before frowning into his empty glass.

Harry staggers up with messy curls shoved out of his face, a pink ( _‘carnation’_ Harry warned in the taxi, squinting vehemently at Liam when he looked less than offended) shirt half-unbuttoned and an orangey drink he sips dry through skinny straws.

He’s got that nearly unbearable cheeky grin on his lips when he slides an arm around Liam’s shoulders, sighing dramatically.

“Boring,” he huffs, bumping their hips, swirling the ice in his glass. “There was this one lad. By the bar. Nice eyes, pretty lips. In a slim suit that kept ordering Jack.”

Liam lifts his eyebrows, playing up an amused expression just for Harry. “Gave him your number?”

Harry grins predictably. “Not quite,” he hums with lazy eyes. “Gave him a follow on Twitter. Hated his screenname though.”

Liam bites back a laugh. “You’re too posh for this lot.”

“Probably,” Harry shrugs. “But he bought me a few drinks and I promised him a dance.”

“How considerate of ya,” Niall teases dryly.

Harry beams and Liam swears he’s too pissed to understand Niall’s sarcasm.

“Alright, drinks and,” Louis pauses for a moment when he walks up, balancing a few drinks between his arms and hands. Liam grins immediately but Louis eyes focus on Harry for a long moment.

Too long.

“Hey,” he grins, shoving the drinks at Niall. He wipes the condensation along his trousers and extends his hand out to Harry, cocking his head.

“’ello,” Harry smiles back, eyelashes fluttering, lips stretching up.

Liam bites on his thumbnail, curious, rocking on his heels before blinking down at the way Louis’ fingers brush over Harry’s knuckles and the grip Harry has around Louis’ hand and the soft clearing of Louis’ throat like –

 _Oh_.

 _Wait, fuck_.

“Leeymo,” Harry whines fondly, eyes half-mast as he stares at Louis, blindly nudging Liam with an elbow. “Who’s your mate?”

Liam’s tongue feels heavy and his heart floats weightlessly in his chest. His blood moves uncomfortably and he can’t think. He can’t wrap his lips around words.

“His boss,” Louis grins, still squeezing Harry’s hand.

“My boss,” Liam blurts, abashed, sulking a little. “He’s my, um, boss. And – yeah, my boss. Mr. Boss – I mean, shit, my Louis. Or – fuck. Louis Tomlinson, my boss.”

“He can’t be,” Harry smiles, wiggling his eyebrows, softening his smile. “He’s too young.”

Niall snorts, swallows down his shot and some of Louis’ too. “Fuck me.”

Louis looks shy, timid for a moment. His spare hand drags through his hair, wrecking it, making him look almost –

Liam looks down at his feet with stinging pink cheeks and his heart _squeezing_ when it should be _expanding_.

“I’m not that young,” Louis laughs, tugging his hand away but stepping in closer. “Twenty-five, mate. And you are?”

“Twenty-one and ‘m Liam’s brother,” Harry beams, shaking his hair out of his face.

“Step-brother,” Liam and Niall say in unison and Liam is half-tempted to look up to see if Louis is still watching Harry but –

He knows Louis is. They always are when Harry is near.

“Harry?” Louis wonders, hands in his pockets, lips tilted crookedly. “Liam speaks so fondly of you, mate. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Harry repeats, nudging away from Liam, closer to Louis. “He doesn’t chat enough about you, though. I’d like to hear about this young, fit boss.”

Liam swallows a rough noise in his throat, jerking his head up because – _no_.

No, wait, _shit_.

“Really?” Louis wonders, leaning on his heels with a lifted brow.

Harry hums a reply, biting along his lip. Like a tease. Like he’s _flirting_.

“Sounds bloody brilliant,” Louis says, his smile shoving endlessly at his eyes until they scrunch into half blue moons. He nods at Harry’s empty glass, motioning towards the bar. “Refill?”

“Lovely,” Harry swoons, stuttering forward, sliding his hand into Louis’ and their fingers naturally fit together like –

Liam feels the knot in his stomach tighten and he’s helpless. His tongue refuses to lift out a protest and his arms go numb and –

Louis smiles down at their hands, stroking his thumb along that soft space between Harry’s own thumb and forefinger. He licks at his lips, his smile shiny and massive, before he tugs Harry along into the crowd, into the sea of swaying bodies until Liam can’t see them anymore.

Until he feels like he’s suffocating, loudly, for the entire room to watch.

“Get fucking bent,” Niall exhales.

Liam feels Niall’s eyes on him – they’re not judging. They’re sympathetic. Because Liam probably looks pathetic, right here. Frozen and frowning and he squeezes his eyes shut until all of those acidic colors blend together. He doesn’t think he’s breathed a single swallow of oxygen for minutes now.

“Payno,” Niall whispers, palming at Liam’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “I can – like. D’you wan’ me to – “

“I need a drink,” Liam says through clamped teeth, dropping his head. He shrugs Niall’s hand off and blindly fumbles through the crowd to a bar on the opposite corner of the room.

Away from all of the eyes and from the view of Louis’ hand easing down the small of Harry’s back.

To a bar less-crowded where he thinks, just maybe, he can breathe.

(And life genuinely hates his very existence, he’s certain of it, while leaning over the bar because – )

“Alright, y’look like you could really use that drink now, mate.”

Liam’s shoulder immediately go tight, his spine coiling, this drag of frustration filtering into every little quick breath he swallows. He’s not sure what he’s expecting when he blinks to his right but Zayn’s crooked grin, his dark hair pushed back and his glasses sitting lazily on his nose doesn’t calm any of the friction around his bones.

Zayn smiles cheekily around the small corner of his lower lip he’s biting. His loose tartan shirt (red and black checks that make his skin soft like honey in this lighting) shows off all of the ink around his collars, the sleeves shoved to his elbows, jeans ripped all down the legs.

Liam makes a halfhearted face because – well, Zayn’s not dressed for the occasion. Or this atmosphere. It’s a bit schoolboy-ish like a fresher on the first day of university.

(And that’s not quite Liam’s type either – not that he’s considered Zayn as anything more than a pain in the arse. A headache he can’t shake. A horrible hangover, he thinks.)

“Life hates me,” Liam mumbles, his shoulders dropping as he slouches over the bar.

“’cuse me?”

Liam huffs a breath, shaking his head. “Nevermind. Are you creeping me or summat?”

Zayn laughs brightly, knocking their hips as he drains a beer. “S’that a compliment to me detective skills, babe?” he wonders, flexing an eyebrow. “Always sort of wanted t’be like the Dark Knight or summat.”

There’s a beautiful design on the back of his hand, just under his knuckles, that Liam stares at for a long breath. He focuses on the swirls and the shapes and all of the heat in his lungs goes cool, calm.

He finds his gravity again.

“You’re mad,” Liam quips but his lips, unconsciously, shift up into a smile. A small one. Barely there.

(except Liam can _feel_ it and he wants to wipe it off but it stays)

“Yeah, I’ve heard that before,” Zayn hums, tapping his fingers on the glass to the music. “Heard I’m rather cheeky, too. Comical. I’ve got a nice smile – “

“You don’t,” Liam interrupts, lowering his eyes because – _he does_. Honestly, Zayn does.

“People like my eyes,” Zayn adds, leaning in, his breath tickling Liam’s cheek.

“I don’t,” Liam mumbles.

“I’m a pretty good listener,” Zayn grins, crooked and huge in the corner of Liam’s vision, “if y’need to, like, I dunno. Look like you’ve got loads on your mind.”

“Not at all,” Liam argues, his tongue heavy with the lie.

He doesn’t know Zayn. He doesn’t _want_ to know Zayn. He wants everything, everyone to fade off and then, maybe, he can crawl into all of the little moments in his head where he’s happy.

Where Liam finally wins over the bloke he’s crushing over without trying.

“You sure?” Zayn offers, soft, inviting. “Y’look like you’re ‘bout to turn into the Hulk.”

The twitch at the corner of Liam’s mouth is automatic. He sinks into it, briefly, shaking his head.

“Shut up,” he laughs, lowly.

Zayn snickers. “Saw a few things on your Facebook. You’re into comics like me, yeah?”

(Liam almost freezes at the thought – not Zayn creeping. The way they have something in common. The way Zayn doesn’t make Liam feel weird like his other first dates –

 _Wait, no, shit_.)

He winces and watches Zayn press the edge of their hands together, his skin warm and soft. It’s new. It’s something he hasn’t had in ages and Liam lets it settle for a moment before yanking his hand away.

“ _So_ ,” Zayn sings, smiling, raising his eyebrows when Liam finally lifts his eyes, “I can’t get you a drink? So we can, like, I dunno – we can chat? Like about stuff?”

“Stuff,” Liam repeats, narrowing his eyes. “Or about how pathetic I am?”

Zayn’s lips twist awkwardly. “I never said – “

“Didn’t have to,” Liam groans, pushing off the bar. “S’all I ever hear.”

He watches Zayn bite at his lip, shooting Liam a wary look he’s seen a dozen times. Hundreds of times. After a pleasant date with a nice bloke who never asks Liam for a second date – just a blowie and maybe a night over at his.

“Hey,” Zayn calls as Liam stumbles back a little, soft eyes and a nice smile that Liam hates, “M’not interested in any of that, alright? ‘sides, I sort of fancy making you smile. You look hot when you get all nervous.”

Liam shoots Zayn an appalled expression that refuses to linger when Zayn laughs. That bright laugh. The one Liam hasn’t bothered thinking about since that awful cab ride and Zayn’s quiet humming and –

He remembers without trying. The way Zayn mocked weddings. How Zayn stomped on the one thing Liam is brilliant at.

“Goodbye Zayn,” he sighs, waving him off as he shifts into the crowd.

“Zayn Malik!” Zayn shouts, smirking. “Just in case you wanted to check out me Facebook later on.”

Liam turns away, spins on his heels, ducks his head to hide his laugh and the way his shoulders relax.

He _can’t_ – he sighs contently for a moment. He stumbles all the way over to Niall, still grinning, ignoring Niall’s wide eyes or the way, from here, he can see Harry and Louis still giggling into each other’s faces.

For a very brief moment (that is all _his_ , he thinks) he relaxes and forgets everything else.

(A short, useless moment because he can see Harry peppering kisses to Louis’ cheek and Louis’ hand squeezing Harry’s knee a little too anxiously and they order another round of drinks and stay that close until two in the morning.)

(And a few hours after that, out of sight, with Liam watching the front door to his flat until he falls asleep on the sofa waiting for Harry to stumble in.)

(At half six in the morning, with heavy eyes and new pink bruises along his throat and a dumb smile that makes Liam sick.)

 

+++

 

He’s not keeping count, he swears.

(Not on purpose, at least.)

Their first date is two days later, a picnic in Hyde Park just before sunset – and Liam swears it’s an idea he told Harry about years ago, when they were teens.

Harry stumbles in, buzzed on red wine and grinning like mad and Liam pretends he doesn’t notice the few missing buttons on Harry’s shirt.

Their third date is dinner at a nice restaurant at the heart of London and a film and Liam’s only slightly shocked when Louis goes on and on about a sickeningly cheesy romantic movie – because Liam _knows_ Louis loves action films. He’s certain Harry begged off a night of violence for something tender, fond that they could ignore to snog and predictably follow along to the plot later without trying.

Liam doesn’t wait up after their fifth date – at a club because Harry loves to dance. And Louis, clumsy and anxious, steals Liam into his office a few hours before to pick out a proper tie and to practice along to Shakira with

(and Liam’s heart doesn’t absolutely drop at the sight of Louis’ grinding his hips and imagining Liam as Harry – _not one bit_ )

and Niall shoots him a disturbingly disappointed look when Liam stumbles back to his desk with pink cheeks and a half-hard cock.

Their eighth date (maybe seventh – no, that was ice cream and star-gazing, _Christ_ ) is mostly Louis slow dancing with Harry in his office, to soft Adele, while Liam spends hours typing up a few e-mails. With horrible grammar and loads of mistakes.

Because he keeps peeking over his shoulder into that glass square of an office to watch Harry giggle into Louis’ neck. The slow slide of Louis’ hand down Harry’s spine. The kisses between songs and the crinkled eyes like –

Liam scowls at his laptop screen and wonders, halfheartedly, why he didn’t go home hours ago.

Zayn shoots him a text on their ninth date (breakfast with Penny at a diner Liam took Louis to months ago, for a business meeting, over crepes) and Liam considers ignoring it but –

_sick!! you updated ur facebook aha… nice pic! You look gangster as superman :) xx Z_

– his lips buzz with a smile and it takes him half a minute to look away from his phone. He rolls his eyes, his thumb swiping repeatedly over the message but he doesn’t respond.

(but something warm vibrates in his chest and he doesn’t think about that hot cup of coffee, a chocolate chip biscuit from a few weeks back – not entirely.)

Instead, he spends a half an hour trying to remember his Tumblr password before uploading a bunch of captivating graffiti artwork he finds on Google. And he doesn’t hate himself for not having a reason for being spontaneous.

(Or _predictable_ , he thinks, but he refuses to admit Zayn has anything to do with it.)

“He keeps going on and on about some Rovers or whatever,” Harry sighs, happily, from Liam’s sofa that night, sprawled out in a lazy pile while Liam browses through a few wedding venues to show Paddy. “Is that some sort of dog?”

Liam blinks owlishly at Harry for a long moment, mouth gaped, slouching in a comfy lounge chair across from him.

“You’re serious?”

Harry lifts his eyebrows, licking at his lips. “I know it’s a rather posh car, innit?”

Liam groans loudly, tipping back in his chair. “Do you – have you, like, _talked_ to him about his interests?”

“He’s interested in me,” Harry grins up at the ceiling, tangling his long fingers in his curls. “But what else?”

Liam gently closes his laptop, shoving it onto the coffee table, leaning forward. “You really don’t – like, you’ve been on _nine_ dates already.”

“Ten if you count breakfast in bed at four in the morning,” Harry smirks, shamelessly bright eyes dragging over Liam. “But, no, like. I listen. He talks loads. A bunch of things. Can’t really keep up, y’know.”

Liam narrows his eyes, scratching his teeth over his knuckles to keep in his frustration.

“Leeymo!”

He tips back with a soft sigh, knocking his feet onto the coffee table, looking up at the ceiling. He folds his hands behind his head and swallows. “He’s like – he’s _amazing_ , Haz. The Doncaster Rovers, his hometown club – he’s invested in them. He’s working out a deal to own the team, y’know. Like – he’s such a family guy. Gives to quite a few charities and no one really knows that.”

“Sweet,” Harry giggles.

“And he’s so invested in London teams. In sport, period. He tries to fund small teams and get recognition for players,” Liam continues, biting the smile off his lip. “He’s ace on the pitch too. Really incredible player.”

Harry snorts. “He’s fairly good with balls.”

Liam groans quietly, knocking their ankles. “Shut up,” he huffs, “He’s trying to find ways to get the Premier League more involved in community things. He has his own youth footy club, y’know? Coaches them on weekends. And he’s really funny. Quite the mouth – “

“Quite the mouth,” Harry says, smug, unashamed. “Bloody amazing mouth.”

Liam winces briefly, kicking Harry’s foot this time. “He thinks his eyes are a dull blue but they’re not like plain blue. Like, I think they call it azure?” he whispers at the ceiling. “And he tries to eat healthy – the idiot. Can’t ever keep away from a good burger or a fatty basket of chips. So he works out. He runs four times a week.”

“Nice and sweaty,” Harry hums appreciatively.

“Haz,” Liam whines, fluttering his eyes shut. He smiles fondly. “He loves Spider-Man. And X-Men. Not much of a DC lad, which is, I s’ppose it’s sort of sad. And he loves Topman but, like, he’ll come to the office in joggers and an old t-shirt with no socks, the twit. He doesn’t, well – he’s never really cared what people think.”

“Looks pretty ace in a suit, that lad,” Harry agrees.

“And Penny – she’s so smart. Like, she’s – she’s bloody brilliant. Much brighter than I was ‘round that age,” Liam smiles, laughing softly. “He loves her to death. Spends as much time with her as possible. They have film nights once a week.”

Harry clears his throat gently, tickling his toes along the arch of Liam’s foot.

Liam blinks his eyes open, tilts his head when Harry says, “You know quite a bit about him.”

He splutters a little, wrinkling his brow. “Well, I mean – like, I’ve been around him for _ages_ , ‘s all,” he stammers. “I’m his personal assistant. It’s like – it’s me job to know stuff. Loads of stuff.”

Harry hums a response and Liam’s not certain what it means. He squeezes his eyes shut, pinching his lip between his teeth.

“Are you really – you’re into him? Like, you proper fancy him?” Liam wonders, absently biting the skin from his lip.

“I don’t know what it is, Leeymo, I just,” Harry pauses and there’s a breath where Liam can hear his smile without looking, “It’s his eyes. Or his awful jokes, man. He’s so into things – even if I don’t quite understand them all. It’s weird.”

Liam clears the ache from his throat, blinking one eye open. “So you like him?”

Harry smirks and his eyes are bright like minty stars. “Quite a bit, yeah.”

“But you’ve nothing in common,” Liam blurts out, biting at his tongue.

It’s not meant to sound so accusing or urgent. It twists and tugs on all of his tendons, his cheeks a flustered red when Harry flicks an eyebrow up at him.

“Excuse you, Liam,” he says, sounding shifty, annoyed, “I beg to differ. I fancy American football and, you know, sporty stuff. And I think babies are cute.”

“She’s four, Hazza,” Liam says, flatly.

“Technicalities,” Harry puffs, rolling off the couch. He shuffles around the coffee table clumsily, patting Liam’s knee, twitching his mouth into a half-smile. “Doesn’t actually matter. He fancies the shit out of me, mate. And I can learn to love all of those things.”

Liam chews the inside of his cheek, sitting in the quiet, staring at his feet. He can hear Harry thumping around in his bedroom, knocking into the wooden dresser, humming all the way to the shower. Singing loud, out of tune Fleetwood Mac tunes.

He bites at his thumbnail, taking easy breaths while Harry gets dressed. Steals one of Liam’s shirt.

For his eleventh date with Louis.

Liam is still not keeping count, he promises.

 

+++

 

Liam loves the scent of fresh grass. Of warm weather. The whistle of a soft breeze, that caramel taste of sun on the tip of your tongue, the sky like a bundle of sweet spun cotton candy.

It’s something about a recreational pitch, in the middle of London, on the edge of spring that he happily drowns in.

“There’s s’pposed to be more like, I don’t know, more to it, innit?” Harry asks, a hand cupped over his eyes, a frown pushing at his cherry lips.

Liam’s shoulders drop some but he smiles determinedly at Niall.

Niall gives a careless shrug, tipping down his Aviators, making a face.

“You had to invite him?” he hisses, cocking his head.

Liam snorts, nodding. “He wanted to come.”

He strokes his tongue over his lips, leaning sideways to peek around Niall and give Harry a look. His muddled curls are shoved back, he’s wearing a _Rooney_ jersey (nicked from Liam’s cupboards), skinnies and boots.

Liam laughs into his shoulder, sighing. Harry looks out of place, foreign and awkward on the field but Liam doesn’t comment.

He’s _adapting_. It’s what he tells Liam in the cab and Liam’s certain Harry’s never done well at changing for anyone. Ever.

“All just a bit of laddish fun, right?” Niall sighs, knocking his shoulder into Liam’s with a low laugh.

Liam lifts his eyebrows, humming. He stares off into the pitch instead of replying –

It’s a bit of a mess, if he’s honest. Spotty yellow-green grass with faded chalk marks outlining the field. The goal posts are rusted, holes in the netting, some of the footballs slightly deflated from wear. He grins at the dozens of children – boys and girls chasing balls all around in an unorganized parade.

Misfits. Chaotic, tiny pirates raiding the shores for gold. Blue and white kits stained green from the grass with scuffed trainers and huge, toothless grins.

His lips tilt higher, pushing at his cheeks when he spots Penny half a yard away from the pitch, picking loose daisies from the field and tossing them high above her head – a pinwheel tornado of flowers dancing around a clumsy fairy.

“Oi, ‘s about time you tossers got ‘ere,” Louis shouts with a grin, jogging up.

He shoots Liam this familiar smile, soft around the edges and shoving at his eyes, leaning on his toes to ruffle Liam’s half-styled hair (because Liam didn’t spend a half hour in the mirror with a handful of product, pushing his hair into different shapes to make it look _natural_ – that bedhair look Louis once told him he loved on Liam).

“Nice,” Louis snorts when Liam ducks his head away from playful fingers.

Niall clears his throat roughly, sniffing, twisting his snapback around. “Sorry,” he mumbles, lowering his sunglasses to shoot Liam a curious look, “we had’ta wait on Madame Harry to get his gown on.”

Louis’ lips twist affectionately and Liam’s heart (the one beating a little too fast from Louis’ stare) stutters in his chest when Louis scoots around him to get closer to Harry.

“Wicked,” Louis smirks, casually sliding a hand to Harry’s hip, leaning up to pucker a kiss to his cheek. “Manchester fan?”

Harry breathes out an artificial swoon that Liam scowls at, laughing. “Of course. We have the best defense in the League,” he insists, a large hand already fitting over Louis’ spine.

Louis makes a face and Harry buries half of his giggle in Louis’ ear.

“Fucking bullshit,” Louis grins. “My team could kick yours’ arse wherever.”

Harry wiggles his eyebrows and Liam swears that sick feeling in his stomach is transferring into his other organs.

“Anytime,” Harry whispers, his voice tilting deep and filthy as he leans in, “I played on my town’s amateur league. We could give it a go.”

“Is he real?” Niall hisses roughly into Liam’s ear and Liam –

His heart drops, the cable on a lift snapped and the metal box hurtling towards the ground floor. He can’t swallow. He watches Louis incline and their lips almost brush, right here, in the middle of the things Liam loves most. His fingertips go cold but his palms sweat and all of his soft breaths refuse to provide the anesthetic to ease the ache all around his limbs.

“Well, let’s see if you were any good, yeah?” Louis suggests, threading his fingers between Harry’s spare set.

“Go easy on me,” Harry laughs breathily, scrunching his nose.

“Oh, love,” Louis replies, theatrically, carefully leading Harry down to the main pitch.

Liam feels the slump in his shoulders, his stare absently intense. His heart is a slow motion pulse behind his ribs. His teeth bite his bottom lip achy. The sun is in his eyes and he can’t find the words to scream at Harry.

He just – Liam stands and he watches.

“Christ, mate,” Niall exhales. “They’re right serious, yeah?”

Liam nods – slow motion. It’s a head-on collision. A car wreck.

(but Liam keeps watching)

“Are you, like – _Liam_ ,” Niall whispers, twitching fingers brushing Liam’s hip. “Mate, do ye, like. Should I – “

Liam twists his lips to disguise the frown, shaking his head. “S’fine,” he replies, firm, wholly dishonest but he forces out a smile for Niall before staggering off the pitch.

He drags his feet all the way over to the sidelines, flopping down in front of Penny. His fingers twist into the grass and, in retrospect, he’s certain he would’ve barked at Harry. Called him on his own bullshit – if he was someone else.

(if he was _stronger_ – even if he’s getting better at it)

Penny drops down next to him, giggling, tossing crushed petals at his face.

Liam’s lips slip into a feeble smile just for her.

“Hiya Clark Kent,” she cheers, tossing her head side to side like there’s a melody in her head.

“Hey perfect Penny,” he grins back and it’s the most sincere thing he’s done in days.

She giggles into her hand, crawling closer, exhaling happily when Liam tucks an arm around her.

“You’re my – my favoritest,” she snorts and Liam thinks –

The scent of clean grass and the wide awake sun and the sky shaped like a ball of spun sugar isn’t as overwhelmingly spiteful with her tucked into his side.

(and he only watches Harry stagger around the field, tripping over his boots, wrapping long arms around Louis flirtatiously instead of _defensively_ like friendly games of footy call for, for a few minutes before his vision goes out of focus)

 

+++

 

“Smashing venue choice, Payne.”

“Yeah, yeah. Quite the engagement do, Liam. Brilliant.”

Liam smiles shyly, a strong hand cupping the nape of his neck while spare fingers grow slick from the condensation around his mostly watered down cocktail. He nods at a few workers he knows from around the office, chewing on his lip, relaxing his shoulders.

He’s in a three-quarter suit, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, trousers neatly pressed, his hair soft even with the handful of waxy product smeared through it. The restaurant – some cheekily posh place at the center of Knightsbridge with minimal lighting and this heady scent of fresh flowers – is mostly crowded with faces he knows from the Rogue. A gentle mix of various departments and friendly smiles he’s greeted on the lift a time or two.

“Well,” Liam grins, squaring his shoulders and puffing his chest a bit, “Can’t really take all the credit, yeah? Mr. Tomlinson wanted something nice for Paddy.”

There’s an echo of cheap laughter that Liam blushes at.

“Good lad,” some neatly dressed suit-type (Liam thinks he remembers him from marketing, maybe the sales department) cheers. “That Tomlinson. Nothing but the best for Patrick.”

“S’not my name,” Paddy grumbles into a glass of beer.

Liam bites on his laugh, hiding it in his shoulder when Paddy scowls.

His eyes briefly scan the room, his lips shifting upward at Niall shamelessly trying to chat up a few girls in a corner with messily spiked blonde hair and a borrowed Oxford shirt already stained from the alcohol. Harry is somewhere in the center of the room, telling another long, slow story with this deep, scratchy voice and wide green eyes and half of the room staring at him with dumbly fond eyes.

By the bar, Louis is –

Liam sucks in a quick breath. He’s slick hair and artfully scruffy stubble and a charcoal suit that makes his eyes look like newborn stars on the horizon. He’s nursing a horribly boring conversation with Paddy’s family, sipping slowly on whiskey with raised eyebrows like he’s interested.

(Liam knows he’s not and he feels shifty, embarrassed when Louis catches him giggling at the scene – winking at Liam halfway across the room and Liam’s heart stutters for five long seconds before – )

He looks away, sighing into his drink.

 _He’ll never be interested_ , Liam thinks with a pinched face.

“Oh c’mon, lad, you’re still the star of the show, Payne. Outside of Paddy and his lovely fiancée, ‘course.”

“No,” Liam laughs kindly, his cheeks still flushed, “that’s me brother over there.”

He nods to the heart of the room where the crowd thickens around Harry, rolling laughter and raised drinks at Harry’s next story (something about California and nude beaches and a Ferris wheel, Liam thinks, sighing.)

Paddy knocks his broad shoulder to Liam’s, groaning. “It’s nice, I s’ppose,” he mumbles, downing his beer. “Not me thing, man. You know me – I like a proper lads’ night out for things like this. A good, dirty pub with a basket of chips and cold Irish ale.”

Liam smirks, studying the creases in Paddy’s forehead and the frown on his lips, the way he looks incredibly uncomfortable in a suit and tie.

“But _Olivia_ – “

“Livi,” Paddy corrects, huffing. “Livi would wear a nice party frock and order tea and steal me chips while we watched a good Arsenal match, Payno. ‘Cause she loves me, mate.”

Something stutters and dilates Liam’s heart at the thought – _being in love with someone just because_. Without the fine print or the clause in the contract or the neatly printed definition of _‘perfectly matched.’_

Paddy nudges him again, smirking as he walks away. “But good job, Payno. She looks absolutely chuffed with this whole affair, mate. Thanks.”

Liam sinks a half-smile into his drink, watching Paddy shift through the crowd to budge up to Olivia, pressing a happy kiss to her cheek, swallowing her smaller frame under his heavy arm. Paddy keeps his eyes on Olivia as she watches Harry start in on another story and

(Liam doesn’t admit it to everyone, keeping it in his chest like a secret, but it’s his favorite part of any love story – not the happy ending. Or the slow burn. It’s the way the reluctantly nervous groom looks at that person he’s madly in love with. Standing at the altar, watching the aisle, grinning uncontrollably because he just can’t look away.)

(That moment you can see just how deliriously in love the poor idiot is with someone else.)

“Need a drink?”

Liam startles, gnawing at his lower lip, half-turning on his heels to glare at Zayn.

(Admittedly, Zayn’s a bit hard to look away from – sharp cheekbones and messy dark hair curling around the softness of his face and framed glasses. A black waistcoat over a dark shirt and slim trousers and a crooked smile that’s – it’s _cocky_. Overconfident. Another reason to hate Zayn, Liam thinks.)

“Are you stalking me now?” Liam sniffs, making a face when Zayn’s smile widens.

“Not even,” Zayn shrugs, his grin shifting around the mouth of his beer when he takes a swallow. “Friend of a friend invited me up, though I sort of knew you’d be here.”

“How?”

Zayn laughs quietly, nudging in until their hips brush and his lips shift wider with a lazy smirk. “Might’ve seen it in your notebook,” he replies, playfully. “Plus it’s a wedding event. Y’can hardly stay away from those, yeah?”

Liam winces, rolling his eyes. “Hilarious, mate.”

“Think I’m quite comedic,” Zayn half-shrugs. He bites along his bottom lip, a pink fading into a blushing crimson under white teeth. “And you look bored.”

Liam sighs, looking away (because Zayn is slightly distracting with those soft lips and sleepy eyes and strong jaw), blinking at the crowd.

“Nope,” he says, dragging out every letter. “M’fine. Happy. I’ve got a date.”

(And _he does_ – some nice bloke Niall introduced him to, off in the corner, downing his fourth drink. Nice shoulders, a sturdy build, grey eyes like a heavy overcast, a clean jaw and he looks bloody _fit_ in a suit. Liam’s type, well, mostly.)

Zayn peeks around Liam, laughing. “He looks dodgy,” he sniffs, wiggling his eyebrows at Liam.

“He’s not dodgy,” Liam snorts, trying to hide his laugh in his shoulder.

“Creepy,” Zayn teases softly.

Liam knocks his strong hip to Zayn’s narrow waist, wrinkling his face.

“He’s brilliant,” he argues, quietly, barely noticing the accidental brush of their elbows because they’re too close. He stares down into his drink, adding gently, “He’s studying medicine.”

“Looks like the arsehole is studying the wallpaper,” Zayn says, his voice flat.

Liam groans softly and –

 _Preston_ , Liam thinks (because he can’t really recall the lad’s name, but he remembers it being just a little too pretentious) does look a bit manic. Fuzzy eyebrows and a lopsided smile and small hands, a dull voice and –

Fucking hell.

“He’s much better company than you are,” Liam grins.

Zayn lifts his brow, a daring smirk sliding over his mouth. “Think so?”

“Definitely, man,” Liam sighs with something incredibly hot in his blood.

It’s the alcohol. It’s late and Liam’s not –

Zayn is far from interesting. And he’s not easy on the eyes, not like Preston. Or Louis. But –

Liam finishes the rest of his drink rather than thinking. He feels the warm brush of Zayn’s shoulder and that awkward feeling deep in his chest settles in like a dragon crawling into a cave.

“I’m sick company, man,” Zayn smiles.

Liam snorts, nudging back. “This your way of trying to chat me up?” he wonders, his tone teasing.

Zayn quirks his lips, long eyelashes fluttering when he laughs. “Not a chance, mate,” he replies, tipping his beer to his lips. “Not my type, anyway. Too fit. Too clean f’r me.”

Liam scrunches his face into a scowl to hide the pink flush over his cheeks. It’s an awful habit, biting his lip and looking awkward, but he can’t help it.

“Bit of a slob, me’self,” Zayn adds, shrugging one shoulder. “I like lads a bit rough. Stubbly.”

“Stubbly?” Liam giggles, licking his lips absently.

“Shut it,” Zayn hisses but there’s a raspy laugh following his words and their eyes scrunch up in unison this time.

Liam looks away first. He studies the splattered _‘ZAP!’_ on Zayn’s forearm. The lines and sharp coloring remind Liam of comic books and fond memories. His lips, helplessly, twitch into a smile and his fingers ache to trace the squiggled outline but he stops himself.

(Because it’s a horrible idea and that _‘SOS’_ hammering behind his ribs scares him a bit.)

“So,” Zayn starts, smirking like he’s caught Liam staring, “this why you’re single? Too busy planning out other people’s dull weddings?”

Liam narrows his eyes immediately. “And are you single ‘cause you’re too busy being a cynical asshole who hates the thought of marriage?”

“Weddings,” Zayn argues with a crooked smile. “Not the marriage part – just the weddings, man. Useless.”

Liam sighs. He needs another drink. And Niall. A little of both, actually.

“I’m quite happy waiting around for a proper good lad to come – “

“Sweep you off your feet?” Zayn suggests, his grin wider. “A bit unrealistic, babe.”

Liam reflexively tenses his jaw and squints his eyes. “How does anyone deal with you?”

Zayn’s tongue presses against his teeth when he smiles at Liam. He shrugs absently, wrinkling his nose. “Loads of people fancy my sense of humor,” he replies, stealing Liam’s empty glass from his fingers. “M’not a half-bad listener either. Been told I’m fairly brilliant in bed also – “

Liam rolls his eyes and gently nudges Zayn backwards.

“Not interested,” he insists, even if it’s halfheartedly because Zayn – _fuck_. “Plus I’ve a date.”

Zayn nods, puffing a breath. “The wallflower, right?”

“Preston,” Liam corrects, trying to sound proud and fond. “I should get back to him.”

“Right, well,” Zayn hums, edging back, his smile still lopsided and bright, “In your notebook, yeah – spotted this poem I s’ppose you like?”

Liam stares at him blankly, settling his breathing at the thought of Zayn thumbing through all of the pages of his worn notebook. All of his daft ideas about a sunset wedding and a first dance playlist and dumb poetry lines he wants written into his vows –

“By Shakespeare?” Zayn wonders, leaning back on his heels.

Liam blinks at him, nodding slowly.

Zayn’s lips, a faint red under his teeth, pull up into an uneven smile. He brushes a few strands of hair from his face, lifting his eyebrows before he says, soft and fond, “Sick choice but – _Whitman_. There’s this one by Whitman that – I dunno. I think ‘s a bit more, like, _you_?”

Liam hums appreciatively, imprinting teeth marks into his lower lip. “Because you’re a writer?” he smiles out.

Zayn snorts quietly. “Maybe,” he replies, looking amused.

Liam looks away, absently rubbing at the nape of his neck, lowering his chin to hide his fond little grin.

“I’ve got work to do,” Zayn finally says, easing back, tilting his head until Liam lifts his eyes. “Y’know, writer stuff and all.”

Something stretches under Liam’s skin and he watches Zayn move through the room, out of sight, with a dozen questions under his tongue. With a curiosity and ( _maybe_ ) a slight interest in what Zayn writes. He bottles all of it, clearing his throat, turning away.

(And this feels slightly familiar – the wondering, the interest in where Zayn has gone. And why Liam might’ve wanted him to stay, just a little longer.)

It’s unexpected, when Louis sidles up to him, stretching an arm around Liam’s shoulders, smiling carefully when Liam turns his head.

“Alright?” he wonders, his voice a shiver under the noise of the restaurant.

Liam nods quickly, fumbling a smile.

“Brilliant.”

Louis grins back, sighing contently. “Me too. I think – I mean. I’m in love with Harry. Like, properly, mate. Sort of sickeningly in love with your brother. Great, innit?”

There’s an unintentional pause in Liam’s heart. A gap between breaths. He blinks at Louis for a long second, forcing out a weak smile.

“Yeah, yeah. Brilliant. Fantastic,” he stutters, laughing nervously. “Wow, that’s – _incredible_ , Louis. Honestly. ‘m so happy for you, like.”

“Yeah, incredible,” Louis repeats, breathily, looking oddly fond when he stares off at Harry across the room.

(Liam holds his breath in his throat, attempts to look anything but gutted until Louis shoves away to crowd around Harry at the heart of the restaurant.

He steals away from the party when no one is looking, stumbling into an alley behind the restaurant to howl weakly at the dark sky. To blink back the aching, stinging tears behind his eyelashes.

It’s a moment he knows, later on, he won’t scribble into that daft notebook he keeps.)

 

+++

 

Sometime after midnight, curled up on his sofa in the dark of his flat with a strongly brewed mug of tea on the coffee table and Harry snoring down the hall in his bed, Liam thumbs around Google on his phone until he finds all of Walt Whitman’s poems.

Until he reads _‘there we two, content, happy in being together, speaking little, perhaps not a word’_ and groans softly, fondly, with Loki poking his head up from where he’s perched across Liam’s feet.

He scribbles the line in messy handwriting into his tiny notebook afterwards.

Liam taps out a quick _‘wow!! is youre suppperpower writer stuff and poetry?? aha :P’_ and sends it to Zayn before he can regret it.

 

+++

 

It’s a few hours past twilight on a Thursday when Louis sends him an urgent text: _‘need u right now meet me on the pitch don’t ask y!’_

And Liam’s hands are shaking all the way in the cab, his lower lip raw and sore from his nervous teeth. He tries to smooth the wrinkles out of his tartan shirt, stained with pasta sauce on the cuff, wiping the sweat from his palm on his chinos.

His mind won’t slow down when he pays the driver and Louis has been nothing but _unpredictable_ since the first time they met so Liam is not expecting this –

A spotty green field glowing under a silver moon and a dozen candles mapped out into an awkwardly shaped heart at the center. He’s not expecting the soft hum of Chris Martin’s voice over the stadium speakers, the _‘lights will guide you home and ignite your bones and I will try to fix you’_ or Louis pacing the pitch in a neat suit with a single rose fisted into one hand.

“Lou?” he chokes out, stumbling up.

“Shit,” Louis hisses with a half-smile, absently wrecking his hair with one hand. “It’s too much, innit?”

“For what?” Liam stutters, his heart doing this mad race behind his ribcage.

“For, well,” Louis sighs, a manic sweep of his arms around him like he’s trying to explain something without words. “I’ve something to, like. I’ve got something I need to say.”

Liam swallows around the _‘when you’re too in love to let it go’_ and his cheeks ache when he grins.

“To me?” he stutters, shifting closer.

“To you?” Louis repeats, curiously, cocking his head. “Well, yeah. To you. To all of London. The fucking world, man, because – “

It’s a moment. It’s _his_ moment. Right here, on a shitty field with Coldplay in the background and a man he’s so helplessly in love with that words twist over his tongue.

Louis eyes light up like rocketing stars and Liam’s heart crawls anxiously into his throat to shout a _‘yes’_ and whisper a _‘I’ve been waiting for_ this _moment – ‘_

“To him,” Louis adds, grinning, and Liam blinks slowly for a few seconds until he notices Louis looking past him.

Louis is looking _through_ him and he turns on his heels just enough to see Harry’s wide-eyed expression as he walks up, looking around sheepishly.

“Lou,” he gasps, faltering. “What the hell is going on, Liam, because – “

Louis darts in, twining his fingers with Harry’s and dragging him past Liam into the flickering candles. Liam trips backwards, halfway out of view, when Louis sinks to one knee, smiling manically when he tugs out a small box from the pocket of his jacket.

All of his words turn to static, a heavy white noise in Liam’s ears after that. He barely hears the _‘will you marry me?’_ under the _‘tears stream down your face’_ and he feels so _lost_. He feels weirdly numb but broken.

“Are you sure? It’s only been a few weeks,” Harry stammers while Louis slides the ring on.

“Two months, actually,” Louis huffs, still kneeling. “And, yes, you massive giant with stupid curls and bloody stupid eyes. I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s all I want.”

(Liam’s heart stops and his breath pauses like he’s drowning.)

“Having a strop?” Harry teases, looking down at the ring. “Don’t be a diva.”

“If you’re quite finished,” Louis smiles, standing. “Yes, I want to marry you, alright? What d’you say?”

(Liam holds his breath until the sharp pull on his lungs is unbearable.)

“Yes,” Harry yelps, tugging Louis in, peppering his cheeks and eyelids and lips with kisses.

(He doesn’t fall apart, _not yet_ , but Liam imagines this is what it’s like to be in a car wreck – slow motion, that _brace for impact_ moment, those five seconds where you blackout and the sirens bring you back to life.)

Louis is smiling into Harry’s shoulder and Harry is on his mobile with Geoff when Liam comes to. When he stops staring at the ring on Harry’s finger and the way Louis looks so damn fond.

In the middle of the pitch, with a dozen candles burning out, and Harry cheering happily about Geoff wanting to walk Harry down the aisle.

 _Shattered_ , he thinks.

But Liam smiles widely, for Harry’s sake, nodding when Harry goes on about his dream wedding and all of his ideas and Louis’ fingers squeeze ecstatically around Harry’s.

“Sounds amazing,” he stutters, his throat tight.

Liam grins and hugs them both, smearing his damn tears over Harry’s shirt because –

(It’s all Liam’s ever wanted: a sickeningly sweet proposal under a shallow moon, planning out his wedding, having his father escort him down the aisle. Spending a lifetime with someone like Louis.)

(Except it’s all for _Harry_ , not him.)

(This is not his moment.)

 

+++

 

“Three weeks?”

Harry’s smile twists under his teeth, something proud stamped into his eyes. His long fingers skim over rose petals, his voice a soft hum when he says, “Yes, Liam, three weeks. We want to be married before the summer. Go on holiday to somewhere nice – maybe Madrid? We haven’t quite decided on it, mate.”

“But,” Liam stumbles, cocking his head. “It’s a bit soon, innit?”

Harry’s laugh is throaty as he scans over the dandelions in the window of some small flower shop Liam frequents just outside of the city.

The sun flicks thick gold lines into the shop, over all of the green, the colorful display by the glass door. It makes everything hazy and honey and the radio in the corner keeps playing old tunes that Liam falls in love with over and over.

Except, Liam can’t focus on any of it. Not with Harry grinning smugly, the frail hints of sun shining off the gold of his ring.

It’s mocking Liam, loudly, but he can’t look away. He hasn’t looked away for a week now.

“Oh, you know, man,” Harry says, his voice deep and thick with his smile, “We don’t really want a long engagement. Plus Penny will be starting up school in the fall so we – “

“But it’s so _short_ ,” Liam insists, trying to school the fragile urgency in his voice.

It doesn’t work and Harry lifts a curious eyebrow at him, fingers skimming the petals of an orchid in the corner.

“I mean, like,” Liam sighs, his shoulders falling, fingers curling into loose fists by his side, “are you sure about this?”

“Positive,” Harry affirms, turning away. “We just wanna get married, Li. So you’ll help, right?”

Liam scratches at his head, heaving out a deep breath. On the edge of his tongue, there’s a sharp _‘no’_ and he almost, almost says it but –

“Yeah,” he breathes, dragging his feet to follow Harry. “Anything you need, Haz.”

“Wonderful,” Harry cheers, grinning over his shoulder. “I think I’ve already got a few ideas. Oh, and that writer from the Times – the one you love, right?”

“Javadd?” Liam wonders, stumbling.

Harry nods quickly, his lips cocking into a lazy smile. “Lou made a few calls and he’s going to write a whole article on us. It’s exciting.”

Liam’s shoulders drop heavily. He can’t stop thinking in these grainy loops of film – _his_ proposal, the love of _his_ life, _his_ father walking Harry down the aisle, _his_ favorite writer.

His bottom lip aches from his teeth dragging along it and he just watches the orangey glow of the shop under the dusty sun. It calms him, slightly, until he can stand to look at Harry without feeling gutted.

“These are nice,” Harry comments, smiling at a collection of yellow roses.

“Penny prefers daises,” Liam shrugs, inching in with a small frown. “She’ll be the flower girl?”

Harry shrugs, fingering the petals. “S’ppose so.”

“Have you even – “

“She’s a cute kid,” Harry whispers, moving away. There’s a quiet strain of _‘for you I was a flame, love is a losing game’_ from the radio and Harry hums with it, moving about the evergreen all around.

He sighs carelessly, adding, “It’s just that – “

Liam blinks hard at him, furrowing his eyebrows. “Not ready to be a father?”

Harry shrugs again with a blank expression, a nonchalant gaze as he sweeps his curls out of his face.

“She’s brilliant, Haz,” Liam argues, biting at the sternness floating over his tongue. “Amazing. I love that little girl, okay?”

There’s a heat in his chest, an angry glowing ember, tucked into his arteries because –

(it’s all he ever wanted – Louis and the planning and waking up to Penny tucked into their sides)

“He’d like these,” Harry beams, waving his fingers over a gathering of lavender tiger lilies.

Liam narrows his eyes and folds his arms over his chest. “Louis would want the baby’s breaths.”

“Or whatever,” Harry shrugs, walking away.

Liam stomps behind him, determined. The world outside looks like a milky snow globe – a city crystalized by the sun and the loud cabs driving by the window, people shuffling through the streets. It’s a mild distraction, a combination of dizzy light and Harry’s quiet humming to the radio, but Liam refuses to focus on any of it.

“Do you even know his favorite color?” he asks, keeping his voice low when a happy couple strolls in.

They’re giggling and frankly _obnoxiously in love_ , holding hands and life truly hates Liam.

In the most visibly taunting way, he thinks.

“Yellow?” Harry suggests, peeking over his shoulder at Liam.

Liam groans quietly, shaking his head. “Red. Dark red.”

Harry rolls his eyes instantly, spinning away. “Oi, don’t give me shit Leeymo,” he fusses, scowling at a display of gardenias, “You’re being a prick. When was the last time you actually had a date you _liked_ , anyway?”

Liam freezes between the roses and sunflowers. He doesn’t even blink. He stands there, defeated, and it’s a few seconds before he actually breathes.

“Maybe if you got a proper shag, you wouldn’t be wound so tight,” Harry offers, stomping away to the front counter and he smiles gently for the girl behind the till, pointing at a series of flowers he wants for the wedding.

And Liam stands there, in the middle of the flowers and the warm sun and all of the things he doesn’t have mocking him.

(He’s not jealous of Harry or the sweet couple picking out roses but – he can’t think of a reason not to be.)

He’s a knob. A right asshole. He shuffles up to the counter, leaning on Harry with a tiny apologetic smile, and helps him pick out all of the colors that’ll make Louis’ eyes look like a soft blue ocean.

(Because he’s already done it, a hundred times before, in his mind.)

 

+++

 

“’lo?”

Liam sucks in a quick breath, feeling warm and bright at the sound of Tom’s wrecked voice through the phone. He smiles into his morning cup of coffee.

(from that shop he loves, brewed the way he likes, with a bag of warm and chewy biscuits, and he doesn’t think about Zayn for a minute – maybe just a brief second, though.)

“Wake up, sunshine,” he grins, leaning over his desk, laughing softly when Tom’s groan goes static through the phone. “Time to get up. Dance rehearsals for the wedding this morning. Your gorgeous fiancée will be waiting for you at the studio. Down at the one off Holmes Road, remember? Brunch with her parents after.”

“I fucking hate you Liam Payne.”

“You fucking _love_ me,” Liam smiles, keeping his voice low, laughing into his coffee. “And so will Soph when you show up on time, for once.”

“Bullocks,” Tom laughs, his voice still deep and scratchy on the other end.

Liam smirks, biting at his thumbnail. “And you’ll love me even more on your wedding night when you see those lovely silk black knickers and garters I helped Soph pick out, too.”

Tom chuckles contently into the phone. “You’re fucking brilliant.”

“Shut up and get your arse outta bed, you donut,” Liam beams, ending the call when Tom groans again, sounding miserably hungover and grateful at the same time.

Liam drops his phone and blinks up when Niall plops down on a corner of his desk.

He looks like a hurricane with tangled blonde hair, heavy bags under his electric blue eyes, a half-buttoned pinstripe shirt, barely knotted tie and a hint of something lacy, satiny peeking out of his wrinkled chinos.

Niall huffs a deep breath, glassy Aviators sitting on his head when he smiles widely for Liam.

“Huge stag last night, Payno,” he snorts, knocking a rough punch to Liam’s shoulder. Liam barely flinches and Niall laughs coarsely before adding, “Impressive. Couldn’t’ve done better me’self, mate.”

“Still hungover?” Liam wonders, cocking back in his chair.

Niall shrugs lazily, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Lost me pants – “

“Again,” Liam teases, reaching out to snap the band on a pair of crimson knickers. “Where’d you meet her?”

Niall twists his lips into a smirk. “Waitress at the pub. Very chatty but she was sort of brilliant. Brainy.”

Liam lifts his eyebrows with his smile, tiptoeing a few fingers over Niall’s knee. “Second date?”

Niall shakes his head, sighing quietly. “I’ve been thinking,” he says in that voice Liam knows he reserves for awful ideas or cheesy karaoke nights, “Like, maybe. I dunno. With a lad? Like, the shagging part.”

“The shagging part,” Liam repeats, low, tasting the words on his tongue while trying not to look confused.

“Yeah, right, like,” Niall exhales, rosy cheeks turning dark, sunglasses sliding over his eyes, “Wouldn’t be so bad to give it a go. Thought about it. Well, loads, really.”

Liam leans back, schooling his expression. He raises his eyebrows, licking a smile from his lips.

“Crossed your mind a few times, mate?”

Niall doesn’t falter. “Sure,” he confirms, toying with his loose tie, “Why not, right? ‘s not, like, _awful_. Maybe Josh? Y’know, from the mail room.”

Liam’s lips twitch into a grin and his chest puffs out a little, impressed.

“He’s kinda cute, yeah?” Niall wonders, stealing Liam’s coffee. He frowns at the taste.

“If that’s your type,” Liam shrugs, snatching back his mug. He likes his coffee and the healthy fuzzy glow of sun streaking through the offices and Niall’s smile.

The playful, unsure one he doesn’t let everyone see.

Only Liam, for whatever that might mean.

“Whatever. ‘m gonna ask him out for drinks. Lots of drinks,” Niall hums, thumbing through Liam’s open notebook on his desk.

“Need to be spectacularly drunk to shag a guy?” Liam asks, a thin tease in his voice.

“Nope,” Niall says, clucking his tongue, “but he might be. I’ve got an awful gag reflex. Pickles freak me out.”

Liam sputters into his coffee and flails just enough to drag a rough laugh out of Niall’s lungs.

His lips, chapped and cherry red, slide into a slanted frown when he glares down at Liam’s notebook.

“You’re really gonna go through with t’is?” he asks, leaning over Liam’s desk, narrowing his eyes. “Gonna plan out your wee brother’s – “

“Step-brother,” Liam mumbles, looking down at his hands.

They’re not shaking but they’re sweaty, pale, his pulse picking under the skin along his wrist.

“ – wedding to the bloke you’re madly in love with?” Niall finishes, pinching Liam’s shoulder.

He pouts in the aftermath, leaning away from Niall. He sniffs, losing focus on most of the room when the sun floats glittery dust in from Louis’ office. His teeth grab a corner of his lower lip and he doesn’t sigh.

He breathes out something heavy and exhausting before looking up. “It’s what’s right,” he replies, lips twisting away from a frown when Niall scoffs at him. “’Sides, Louis deserves a happy ending or summat. He’s a good lad. A wonderful father. Deserves one of those fairy tale weddings.”

Niall licks patiently at his lips, hopping off of Liam’s desk. There’s something dense and discouraging in his eyes, unfiltered by a sweep of his eyelashes.

“But to _you_ , right?” he asks, slow and stretched.

Liam plays nonchalant, thumbing over his phone. He doesn’t answer Niall and he thinks –

The volume of his silence is enough for Niall to pat his shoulder sympathetically and walk away.

(It’s probably his favorite thing about Niall – he knows when to walk away.)

Liam rests his chin on his knuckles, letting his coffee go cold and untouched on his desk. He swipes through a few apps on his mobile, burying all of the

(he doesn’t want to call it _disappointment_ but it’s definitely not a nameless feeling because it’s loud, raging, dreadful colors across his eyelids)

thoughts in the back of his mind.

He chews the inside of his mouth, letting the sun burn orangey waves over his shoulders while he queues up Twitter. He pauses, swallowing a breath, before thumbing through his favorites.

Liam knows what he’s looking for. He knows what will quiet the white noise in his head –

 **@ZJavaddtheTimes:** _You see each day i love you more .. Today more than yesterday and less than tomorrow :) x_

 

+++

 

“So we have to make our own wedding cake?” Harry asks in this discernably whiney voice that bothers Liam.

He bites on his lip, sliding on an apron in his favorite bakery. There’s flour dusted all along the wooden table and bowls of cake batter, that fresh scent of sugar and icing and sweet spices. Heady cocoa powder, stems of vanilla, the heat from the ovens already saturating his skin with a thin sweat.

Louis’ laughing softly, tying Harry’s apron, pressing on his toes to kiss his cheek with a _‘shut up, don’t be a menace’_ that Liam wishes –

He looks away quickly. His heart is beating out a rough melody like a distraction.

“Chef Wagner is,” Liam starts, folding up the cuffs of his shirt.

“Weird,” Harry supplies with a crooked smirk.

“ _Different_ ,” Liam corrects in a gentle hiss while Wagner leads a couple through a few of his favorite recipes in a corner of the bakery.

“Eccentric,” Louis chimes, knocking his hip to Harry’s. “He’s got a process, yeah?”

Liam nods happily and he swears there isn’t stardust glazed over Louis’ eyes and he doesn’t imagine Louis next to him, in a pressed tux, helping Liam carve into a wedding cake.

 _Their_ wedding cake.

(He doesn’t imagine it at all.)

“He likes his clients to feel and understand his cake routine. Says it’s sort of therapeutic,” Liam adds, shrugging. He presses a tan hand into the flour, drawing lazy shapes into it like snow. “He thinks watching them create a cake helps him imagine the sort of masterpiece he can build for their big day.”

“Wicked,” Louis grins.

Harry groans, rolling his eyes, slumping his shoulders. “It’s odd.”

“You’re odd,” Louis teases, catching the tip of his tongue with his teeth when he smiles and Harry’s nose twitches with his own smirk. “S’why I love you, H.”

(It’s almost absent, involuntary now – the way Liam immediately looks away from them. The way he finds simple distractions like a leaking tap or the color of the sky or the seconds hand on his watch to keep his eyes off of them.)

(Pathetic, he thinks, but it helps.)

“More work, less talk,” Wagner calls from across the room, shaking a rolling pin at them.

Harry snorts into Louis’ shoulder and their hands (small and tan and wide and milky) mix the ingredients together, overlapping, matching rings shiny under freckled sunlight.

Liam drags in a harsh inhale, chewing his lip at his station. Alone. He’s certain this was a horrible idea.

“I used to be a baker,” Harry mumbles with a breathy laugh. “Between classes and footy, ‘course.”

Louis grins up with that fond look that Liam wants –

(He _doesn’t_. He doesn’t want it for himself. He’s _happy_ for them, he tells himself, on repeat until he nearly believes it.)

“We should have a theme like _‘Midnight in Paris’_ for the cake,” Harry suggests, lips quirking.

Fingers covered in flour crawl up Harry’s arm, smudged white dust over his tattoos in the aftermath, and Louis’ lips settle to one of Harry’s dimples before he replies, “Anything you want, H. Can fly in fresh croissants if you want.”

Harry’s muffled laugh is swallowed by Louis’ mouth and the edges of their face blur when Liam stares too hard.

(He forgets most of the recipe and he’s certain pumpkin spice isn’t a part of any chocolate cake he’s ever tasted but – )

“Hope ‘m not late. Bit of traffic from the West End.”

Liam’s head jerks up immediately, his jaw going slack, his mouth dry when Zayn walks in.

Long fingers squeeze around the strap of Zayn’s shoulderbag, his jaw a faded shadow of barely-there stubble, his plaid shirt loose, his boots heavy on the bakery floor. A slow tongue drags over his pink lips, white teeth catching it when he stares at Liam.

Liam’s mouth curls and he stirs the batter a little too furiously when Zayn flashes him a lopsided smile.

“What’re you – “

Zayn half-turns on his heels, moving in towards Harry and Louis with an extended hand.

“Zayn Malik,” he grins, shaking Louis’ clean hand. “I write for the Times? People usually know me as – “

“Oh, _Z. Javadd_ , right?” Harry cheers and Liam –

He stumbles. He knocks over the milk and swears lowly when Zayn notices. He flushes, breathing heavy, glaring at Zayn for a long moment because –

 _Fucking hell_.

“Yeah, that’s me,” Zayn says with a half-smirk, darting his eyes back towards Harry. “Zayn Javadd Malik but I just go by that name for the byline. Loads of creepy people out in London, y’know.”

Harry laughs loudly and Liam scowls, his trousers stained with milk and his wrists covered in batter and Zayn just a few yards away. Zayn, the absolute _tit_ , who keeps grinning and the laughter lines around his eyes are nearly adorable but –

He’s a right asshole is what he is.

“But you said,” Liam stammers, shaking his head.

“That I’m a writer?” Zayn offers, raising his eyebrows, humming softly.

“Yeah, but,” Liam sighs, smearing raw dough over his apron.

“Um, d’you two, like, know each other or summat?” Louis wonders, leaning back on his heels, trading glances between Zayn and Liam.

Zayn’s lips quirk into something unforgivably sinful, his tongue sliding over his lips again (it’s wholly distracting and taunting and Liam refuses to stop watching it).

“Or summat,” Zayn responds, wriggling his eyebrows.

“ _Oh_.” Harry’s gasp is a little telling and Liam scrunches his face, biting on his own words (a screaming _‘I fucking hate him’_ at the back of his throat, acidic over his tongue) while adding too much cocoa to his batter.

“Sounds like a fun story,” Harry giggles, puffing out a breath to knock the curls from his face.

“Not really,” Liam and Zayn say together and Liam frowns when Zayn smiles back at him.

A complete asshole, by definition.

“We’re both into the wedding thing,” Zayn adds, scrunched eyes and a wide smile made of all of the things Liam would never love –

Soft pink lips and shadowy stubble and a mild arrogance.

He tugs off his shoulderbag and trades it for an apron, rounding a corner to stand next to Liam at his station, ink scattered and overlapping like a cluster of constellations on his forearm when he shoves up his sleeves.

Liam barely flinches when Zayn hip-checks him and he studies the intricate tattoo knitted over the back of Zayn’s left hand to keep himself from grimacing too much.

Zayn brushes their elbows gently, wriggling his eyebrows when Liam lifts his eyes. He’s not wearing glasses and the afternoon sun streams in from an awkward angle, making his eyes light like raw honey. Liam squints at him, exhaling gruffly.

“Oh,” Harry grins with sticky fondant on his fingertips and Louis smearing cake batter over his cheek, laughing, “did I mention how much of a massive fan my brother is of your stuff? Huge. All of your articles wallpaper his flat and stuff. It’s weird.”

(When they were much, much younger, Liam _‘accidentally’_ shoved Harry into the deep end of a pool when he shouted, with a strawberry-red mouth from an icy lolly and dripping curls, to sweet Caroline from their neighborhood about Liam’s massive crush on her. He swears he didn’t know his own strength back then.

Harry, the fucking twit, was a very good swimmer at that age.)

Liam flushes a sharp vermillion all over the moment Zayn’s eyes drag over him and he tactfully focuses on the cake recipe rather than the echo of Harry’s laugh booming through the bakery.

(There’s not a swimming pool or a large enough body of water nearby but Liam feels that same sweet curl of impulse in his blood.)

“But why,” Liam says, low enough just for Zayn, their elbows still brushing as they add ingredients, “Why didn’t you, like. You didn’t say anything.”

“Y’never asked,” Zayn shrugs, his chin lowered, his smile a soft angled blur under the sun. “Didn’t think it mattered.”

“It _does_ ,” Liam blurts, startling himself, his skin aching with the blush now.

Zayn chuckles. His fingertips are dusted with flour, absently drawing out shapes up Liam’s forearm and Liam thinks to jerk away.

He stays still and his blood vibrates in the wake of Zayn’s lazy sketches.

“’Sides,” Zayn smirks, bitten lips stretching out, “It’s not, like, my dream. Writing for Commitments, I mean. Um, it’s just a job, right now. S’ppose having a degree in journalism from LSE doesn’t mean much when you’re a young lad from Bradford.”

“LSE?” Liam hums out, keeping his eyes low.

Zayn snorts and their elbows knock intentionally this time when Liam sighs.

“London School of Economics and Political Science,” Zayn replies, sniffing. “Pretty massive place to study at. Highly ranked or summat.”

“Or summat,” Liam swallows and the alarming swirl of pink in his cheeks reflects off an empty steel bowl nearby.

Zayn lifts his shoulders in a timid shrug, agile fingers beating eggs into their mixture. Careful teeth work over his bottom lip and Zayn has this nice scent of cigarettes and soft vanilla and bright citrus ( _Satsuma_ , Liam guesses, a flavor he remembers Louis using once or twice) that distracts him just enough –

From the giggling nearby, the way Louis licks icing from Harry’s fingertips, the messy kisses shared while shoving their cakes in the oven mounted on the wall.

“I want to write deeper pieces, y’know? Something with _value_.”

Liam can’t slow the disappointed noise that wobbles in his throat at Zayn’s words.

“Wedding have value,” he argues, his voice strained but soft.

Zayn huffs a short laugh. Their hands meet over the flour, fingers grazing gently and Liam tugs back quickly, electric shock through his nerves. He watches Zayn’s lips curl into a smug smile and the air in Liam’s lungs evaporates.

“Weddings are just fluff, mate,” Zayn remarks as Liam drags the back his hand over his face, finally exhaling. “They’re a bit dramatic. Overdone.”

“Obviously, you’ve been to all of the wrong ones,” Liam argues.

Zayn raises his eyebrows, his smile tilting. “I’d say we’ve both been to our fair share?”

(Something tense curls around Liam’s shoulders and spirals down his spine and his features smooth into something blank when Zayn tilts his head to look at Liam.)

“How can you write such beautiful things and hate weddings, mate?” Liam hisses.

Zayn grins fondly, leaning in. He’s so close – all of his angles and sharpness and the crinkles around his eyes turning into a soft fuzz, a cool breath of sun brightening his eyes. His laugh is shoved into his teeth, his tongue peeking behind them. It’s like honey – his face. Honey in your morning tea and the steam leaving your vision a little dizzy.

A thumb brushes softly over the tip of Liam’s nose and it comes back white, Zayn’s giggle washing across Liam’s mouth.

“Bit of flour there, mate,” Zayn whispers.

Liam stumbles back some, narrowing his eyes because –

Zayn is anything but _soft_ and _honey_ and disturbingly _beautiful_.

(He’s a smug asshole, by every letter of the definition.)

The calm lift of Zayn’s shoulders for a shrug stirs something in Liam’s lungs. It’s careless, like Zayn’s grin.

“Weddings are just fluff,” Zayn repeats, drawing back a little. He blinks down to their lumpy cake batter, his smile turning saccharine, “but marriage is – everyone loves a good love story.”

There’s a stereo playing a soft hum through the overhead speakers, an addictive _‘since I was young sugar on my tongue but I can feel the taste of it in the notion filled with words I’m lost’_ that pulses in Liam’s ears. The rhythm filters into the sun, dust flying like the aftermath of fireworks, and Liam focuses on the way Zayn’s teeth knead into his lower lip.

The skin going pink, a blunt red, paler. Soft skin. Swollen and probably sugary –

All of the oxygen in Liam’s lungs catches fire and he looks down at his feet.

(He looks anywhere but Zayn’s face for a whole five minutes.)

Their silence is like the echo of raindrops in the forest – a calm. Their hips brush while flouring the pans, shaking hands holding a bowl while Zayn scoops out the chocolate. Synchronized smiles, for a moment, when they notice the matching flour handprints all over their aprons.

“Gentle, gentle,” Wagner insists when he drifts by, smirking widely, “Make the cake love you. Like sweet sex. Brilliant.”

Zayn coughs a raspy laugh into his shoulder and Liam scowls, shifting away.

He doesn’t want to imagine –

(Well, he _does_ , briefly. Floured hands sliding up his hips, fingerprints between the hollow of his ribs. Smears of chocolate across his sternum. Lips stained with icing. The imprint of a cooling rack against his spine and hot breath along his face. Raw noises fluttering out of his throat while stretching around a cock, softly chanting _‘more, more’_ between kisses – )

“You should, like,” Liam huffs, turning his face away from Zayn. He nods his head towards Harry and Louis, trying to swallow all of the guilt.

Zayn hums, furrowing his eyebrows, frowning.

“Them,” Liam mutters. “Shouldn’t you be chatting with them? About the wedding.”

“Oh.”

Liam blinks up, carefully edging his face into something neutral and pretending he’s thinking of anything but –

Louis’ smile is shoved under Harry’s jaw, hands curled around narrow hips, Harry’s curls covering half of his face. Their laughter is a rough harmony, Harry pressed gently against a metal rack, flour smeared on his cheeks, frosting on his lips, Louis’ kisses along his throat –

The blood tastes coppery like a coin along Liam’s tongue and it’s not until he smears it along his fingers that he realizes he’s bitten his lip roughly while watching Louis and Harry.

(Because this is not his love story – no matter how much it’s _supposed_ to be.)

 

+++

 

It’s a Tuesday and miserably rainy outside and Liam has stopped repeatedly reading Louis’ text –

_‘feel better mate! take all of the time you need off of work! I will send you soup with H if you need me to’_

– an hour ago to finally crawl off of his sofa for a steamy cup of tea.

He’s not poorly. Nearly two years of always being on time, early even, working overtime, and he’s never missed a day at the Rogue.

Not until now.

The guilt has started to fade off, that heavy feeling on his shoulders for lying to Louis but –

He doesn’t want to look at Louis. Or all of the framed pictures of Harry in his office now. Or the scent of Harry’s cologne on Louis’ skin when he walks by Liam’s desk. That insufferably warm smile on Louis’ lips now – not because of Liam or his dumb e-mails or his horribly typed memos.

Not because Liam has prepared his coffee (the way he likes) or left a warm bagel on his desk (the raisin kind Louis always begs for) or left a copy of the sports section from the Times (because it’s the only part of the paper Louis’ studies habitually) for him.

That intolerably bright look in his eyes is because of Harry, entirely.

And Liam hates it.

He distracts himself with burnt toast smeared with Nutella and old Michael Jackson tunes, dancing around his flat in a wrinkly Batman shirt and old joggers while Loki trails behind him barking. It’s all a bit ridiculous, tripping over the carpet and knocking over old comic books while he tries to moonwalk.

But Liam – he smiles hard enough to leave an ache in his cheeks.

He’s halfway through a tender falsetto, a rough _‘so Annie, are you okay?’_ that Loki howls at, when a soft tapping at his door startles him.

Liam shuffles all the way to the door, brushing sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist, his breaths coming in quiet pants. He swallows, tugs open the door and –

Zayn leans in the entryway with a condescending grin, fingers curled around the strap of his shoulderbag, rain dripping from the ends of his hair.

“M’not interrupting something important, am I?”

Liam groans softly, ducking his head. “Go away.”

Zayn bites off a small laugh, brushing his hair back. “Don’t be rude.”

Liam shoots him an incredulous stare that Zayn ignores, sniffing and dragging his tongue over his lips.

“C’n I come in?”

“What for?” Liam asks, eyes narrowed.

“C’mon, babe,” Zayn whines, crossing his arms, a shoulder pressed into the doorway. “I have to chat with the grooms, interview all of their friends and family for the wedding. The usual stuff.”

“Harry’s not here,” Liam says flatly, pressing his temple to the door. “He’s out. A fitting or something.”

“Perfect,” Zayn says, grinning dopily, “Then we can talk. Just you and me.”

Liam wrinkles his nose, tapping out _‘Dirty Diana’_ on the wood of his door before making room for Zayn. “Actually, I think we’ve done that already. Hasn’t quite worked out the last few times.”

“Because you’re stubborn,” Zayn teases but his lips tilt into a grateful smile before he shrugs inside.

“I’m not the one being a twat about everything,” Liam sighs, knocking the door shut while Zayn examines his flat.

(It’s not very tidy, Liam thinks, with leftover pizza boxes on the counter and a collection of used tea bags by the kettle and most of Harry’s clothes shoved onto the armchair but he doesn’t think that matters.

He doesn’t think he’d ever clean up to impress someone like Zayn.)

Water drips from Zayn’s hair, his boots streaking small puddles along the hardwoods. There’s a soft echo of thunder outside, the noise vibrating between the buildings. Everything is grey and silver inside of Liam’s flat from the heavy clouds and Zayn eases around the sofa, toeing off his boots, tugging off his shoulderbag before flopping down on the worn cushions.

“Make yourself at home,” Liam sighs, fumbling through the flat, Loki leading an anxious charge towards the sofa.

“Am I that horrible?” Zayn wonders, his smile still tilted, a smooth landslide of pink lips and curious eyes.

Liam shrugs carelessly, dropping down on the sofa, Loki leaping up between them.

“No,” he whispers, picking at loose threads in the fabric.

Zayn lifts his eyebrows, a little too smug, his laugh smoky as he nudges a few knuckles to Liam’s knee.

“Shouldn’t you be asking some questions about the wedding?” Liam frowns.

Sharp teeth bite nervously at those sugar pink lips and everything inside of Liam’s flat is this dim stillness that makes him weirdly comfortable.

(and he knows he _shouldn’t_ feel this way – not with Zayn inches from him, their knees almost brushing)

“S’ppose I should,” Zayn huffs, leaning back, snuggling down to relax into the beat up cushions.

Loki growls gently in his throat, eyeing Zayn with dark, dark eyes.

“Loki,” Liam sighs, scrubbing fingers into his fur, “don’t be rude, boy.”

Zayn smirks, rubbing at his chin.

“Loki?” he asks, low and deep.

Liam raises his brow some, wrinkling his nose. “Yeah. I’m a bit of – I love comics, okay?” he says, waving an absent hand around to the posters and the collection of Detective Comics stacked by the telly. “I was a huge fan of – “

“Thor,” Zayn offers, inching up his grin. A calm, breathy laugh trips past pink lips before he adds, “Yeah, yeah, me too. I mean, like – _the Dark World_ was sick, mate. Not as good as the first film, but Loki was sort of bad ass. Good choice.”

(He’ll never admit it, but Liam ducks his head to cover up a cough – or the heavy beat of blush in his cheeks but he hides it all in his shoulder, just in case.)

Loki huffs a soft bark at Zayn, his spine still rigid, his head tilted curiously.

“Sorry, he isn’t too fond of strange – “

Loki scurries forward and Zayn eases a hand over his head, fingers scratching kindly behind his ear until Loki is whimpering happily, cuddling into Zayn’s lap, his tail wagging contently.

“Think he likes me,” Zayn says, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. Liam narrows his eyes, exhaling roughly. “Unlike you, mate,” he adds, chuckling when Liam’s cheeks prickle pink.

“I didn’t say,” Liam starts but Zayn lifts a quick hand, shaking his head.

“Y’can tell a lot about people by their actions, babe,” Zayn shrugs, puckering his smile, an absent duck-face that Liam thinks to laugh at –

(Except Zayn is anything but charming or amusing or, well, he’s not _anything_ to Liam.)

“The wedding,” Liam mumbles, clearing his throat, averting his eyes to the window where the rain slinks slowly down the glass, looking like liquid silver in the dark.

“S’that all you think about?” Zayn asks, his sharp teeth still worrying over his lip, fingers rubbing Loki’s head until he’s nearly sleep. “Wedding stuff?”

“No,” Liam snaps with furrowed eyebrows. “I’ve got, like. There’s other things.”

“Like what?”

Liam sucks in a sharp breath, crossing his arms, slouching down into the couch. He thinks to kick at Zayn’s ankle when he laughs roughly. Instead, he nudges Zayn’s shin and bolts down his own laugh because, well –

He feels a little pathetic. Embarrassed. He’s spent more hours planning out someone else’s _‘happy ending’_ rather than remembering what it was like to exist without it – the weddings and suits and the _‘I do’_ that echoes in his ears for hours.

“How many?” Zayn inquires, leaning in.

Liam arches a fuzzy eyebrow, chewing the inside of his cheek.

Zayn snorts and their fingers meet somewhere low on Loki’s spine, scratching gently until Loki’s sighs happily.

“How many weddings in the last year?” Zayn explains, sniffing.

Liam’s shoulders drop and his eyes lower to where their pinkies brush, the cage of warmth their fingers create around Loki’s small midsection.

“Fourteen?” he whispers with a crinkled nose. “Ten the year before that, maybe? I dunno. Like, three this year if you don’t, like, count my step-brother’s. So – ”

“Twenty-six?” Zayn hums.

“Twenty-seven,” Liam laughs, the noise startling him. It’s completely relaxed, a gentle vibration through his chest, a warm taste in his mouth.

He ducks his head when Zayn’s mouth quirks crookedly into a grin.

“I sucked at maths,” Zayn admits, curling his fingers absently around Liam’s on Loki’s back.

“Me too,” Liam snorts. “Had to really think about it.”

“How do you keep up with all of ‘em?” Zayn asks, curling in until their knees are pressed together.

Liam wrinkles his brow, his mouth gentling into a somber smile before he giggles, jerking his head towards the coffee table.

“It’s dumb,” he sighs, lifting a foot to kick at a tattered photo album, colorful papers sticking out, the spine slightly unwound from too many nights flipping it open and closed. “I keep all of the invitations. Every one. It’s like – I like to look them over, okay? It’s a reminder.”

“It’s mental,” Zayn teases and Liam kicks him this time, sharply in the ankle, smiling at the yelp he tugs out of Zayn.

“Shut it,” he smiles, eyes crinkling, cheeks a fever pink from the blush. “I don’t have a big enough closet for all of the suits I’ve worn so – “

Zayn tilts his head some, a bit too fondly, their fingers still smoothing together in this back and forth motion – like a rowboat. Like falling stars chasing each other.

Low on the docking station, in his bedroom, Liam can hear this gentle _‘come away with me in the night, come away with me and I will write you a song’_ and the quiet strains create a rhythm with the rain that’s inescapably calming.

It’s tragically beautiful, from here, in the grey with Zayn looking up through long, dark eyelashes.

“Call it whatever you want, mate,” Liam groans, slumping on the couch, “but it means loads to me, alright? I keep ‘em all. Like a bookmark.”

“Your own page in their lives, right?” Zayn wonders and there’s something genuinely warm about his smile this time.

(It’s far from mocking or teasing or even condescending. It’s bright. That first day of spring, when the weather’s coaxing away the cold and the world is nothing but green.)

Liam snickers quietly, this transference of heat between their fingers and their knees, shifting around his bones.

“Twenty-seven different little stories, man,” Liam whispers, following the flutter of Zayn’s eyelashes and all of the silver shadows chasing over his face from the lightning outside.

“Why not write your own?”

Liam tips his chin down to hide the way his lips automatically ease into a frown. It’s a little too natural now – this feeling.

“I dunno,” he says with a carefree shrug. He taps his bare foot on the cold hardwood floor to _‘and I wanna walk with you on a cloudy day’_ while tasting his words over his tongue.

(While swallowing the bitter, chewing around his explanation.)

“People want me to be there for the happiest day of their lives, okay? They want that one person they can lean on. To give them strength – “

“Courage,” Zayn inserts.

(Liam doesn’t argue because _‘courage’_ tastes much sweeter than _‘someone to give them the bullocks to do it.’_ )

“It’s their moment and they want me to be apart of it. Why not?” Liam adds, flinching up one shoulder for a halfhearted shrug.

He keeps his eyes low, watching the sky paint charcoal over their fingers, gold and tan turning battleship grey without proper lighting. His teeth bite anxiously along his lower lip, all of his oxygen recycling through his chest but never meeting his lungs.

“And you’re gonna do the same thing for your little brother – “

“Step-brother,” Liam corrects, automatically, frowning softly.

Zayn’s fingers squeeze around his before dragging back some. “He gets that _‘moment’_ before you?”

Liam snorts and swallows back the _‘he_ stole _that from me’_ before replying, “Of course. He’s always sort of – it’s always been him and me. Him, me, and my pops. For so long. But I’ve always sorta raised him. Looked after him.”

“Sounds like a job.”

Liam bites over his frown, tracing the shadows that are crawling over the back of Zayn’s hand, up to the microphone chord wrapped around his wrist.

“S’not,” he whispers, twitching his nose to flick away the pout on his lips. “But someone needs to make sure – I guess, I just wanna see ‘im happy. ‘s all.”

“All of these people,” Zayn says, clearing his throat roughly, waiting on Liam’s eyes to lift, “They get that little snapshot of a good day. You create that for them. But who’s gonna do it for you?”

Liam’s lips quirk naturally into a smooth smile, one that twitches at his cheeks, Zayn reaching out to brush a few knuckles over his knee like _‘what’s that about?’_ is waiting on his tongue. They share a soft, secret smile like the world is watching, like the thunder is aching just for them –

Except it’s _just them_ , Loki snoring quietly from Zayn’s lap, the clouds chasing light away from the windows.

“One day,” Liam says, licking at his lips, snuggling into the sofa, hiding his smile in the shadows, “it’s gonna be about me. It’ll be my turn. To have a wedding, to let the world revolve ‘round me. And each of them will be right there. They’ll remember what I’ve done.”

“They’ll give you courage?” Zayn teases, pulling the photo album into his lap, flipping through it.

“Yeah,” Liam breathes, still smiling.

“Sounds a bit mad,” Zayn sighs, running his fingers over fine script and colorful invitations, “Hopeless romantic shit, innit?”

Liam’s mouth flinches into something solemn. “It might sound daft,” he mumbles, easing up to pull the book from Zayn’s thigh, “but s’how I feel. So if it’s dumb or mental, it’s what I want, okay? ‘S my moment.”

Zayn nods slowly and Liam drops the fraying scrapbook onto a corner of the coffee table. Everything is grey and shadowy, the rain tickling the city with silver drops and a low roar of thunder.

Long fingers scratch up Liam’s knee, a thumb tracing the bone, a spare hand tugging a pile of poorly cutout newspaper articles from the coffee table. Liam’s cheeks burn instantly and he reaches to snatch them from Zayn’s loose grip but Zayn’s reflexes are quicker, his lips quirking higher.

Zayn hums quietly, blinking at a handful of words he’s stitched together, love stories knit into a neat tapestry of –

Because Liam knows Zayn doesn’t believe a single word he’s written.

 _Fluff pieces_ , he thinks. For daft people like Liam, who still believe in dumb things like that – like _love_.

Liam shifts his knee away from Zayn’s touch – even though it’s soft and steady, calming – and Zayn lifts his eyes, a tiny corner of his mouth bitten by white teeth.

“It’s not daft,” he whispers, setting all of the articles back onto the coffee table, easing Loki from his lap. He steps into his boots, shrugs on his shoulderbag, fixes his glasses before looking down at Liam.

All of the shadows trace cool grey lines over his face, steal away some of the sharpness, pewter smudges down honey skin.

His smile is – it’s not quite smug, condescending like Liam imagines it should be.

It’s a fifth tender, an inch of pity underneath.

“Just doesn’t seem fair,” Zayn shrugs. “To you, mate. Seems like you’re spending all of your life chasing someone else’s dream or summat.”

Liam doesn’t bother looking up at Zayn as he moves towards the door. He stares for a long minute at the messy stack of articles, all of the stories he’s embedded himself in a time or two. All of the newspaper grey and a mass collection of fairy tales.

(His mum used to read him love stories when he was too little to know magic doesn’t really exist. It’s one of the only memories he refuses to let go of.)

His flat turns cold and dark and Liam keeps staring at the shredded papers until his vision goes fuzzy.

(His mum would read him love stories and it’s the only time he felt warm. It’s the only thing he remembers most about her.)

An hour later, he tucks away that scrapbook of invitations onto an almost empty bookshelf, pins all of the newspaper articles to the fridge (because his mum told him fairy tales and he still wants to believe in them, with or without Zayn’s name attached) and makes a cup of strong tea.

He watches the rain splatter the streets from his window, everything washed out and pale, until Harry stumbles through the door.

(He listens to all of Harry’s stories afterwards, cuddled on the couch with mugs of steamy tea, his head in Harry’s lap as he talks all slow and happy – another love story that’s not his.)

 

+++

 

“Does your brother really need all of this stuff?” Zayn asks, lazily aiming the laser of his gift registry scanner at some weirdly designed ( _‘its art,’_ Zayn argued a few seconds ago, even when Liam rolled his eyes) ceramic bowl.

“Step-brother,” Liam and Niall say in unison, crinkly-eyed smiles directed at each other.

Zayn groans softly, aiming the laser at faceless mannequins like a three-dimensional game of Halo.

Niall chases up the nearly-empty aisle, laughing manically, scanning a dozen items not on Harry and Louis’ list (the one crumpled in Liam’s hand from an hour at Selfridges, another two hours in a shop further into the city, a stopover at a Starbucks where Zayn met them) and Liam spends another ten minutes following him to clear the _‘his and hers’_ dressing gowns off the registry.

“Why are you here again?” Liam wonders, barely trying to clear the annoyed sigh from his voice.

Zayn grins, tucking his chin over Liam’s shoulder to scan a throw pillow with knit butterflies along the fabric.

(Another item Liam will have to delete, later, without Niall and Zayn mucking everything up.)

“Harry invited me,” Zayn says, into the crook of Liam’s neck, his chest pressed along Liam’s spine and he’s so warm, his scent something sour-sweet like tangerines and Marlboros.

Liam huffs quietly, trying not to press into Zayn, nudging him back with a soft elbow.

“But he’s not here,” Liam frowns, stumbling to keep up with Niall.

Zayn shrugs, striding quickly next to Liam, their hands absently brushing between their hips.

“Part of telling a good tale is being in on every piece of it, babe,” Zayn explains, shooting lasers over crystal bowls and handcrafted towels that Liam thinks Harry might love.

(They’re a bit too posh for Louis, he thinks, but maybe he doesn’t really know what Louis likes.)

(Because Louis fell in love with Harry, not Liam, obviously.)

“Sounds like bullshit t’ me,” Liam mumbles.

“And does your massive catalogue of Z. Javadd’s articles say the same thing?” Zayn teases and Niall, the bastard, actually snorts ahead of them, spinning around on his heels to grin menacingly at Liam.

(He should’ve gone alone. He should’ve accepted Niall’s _‘fuck off’_ this morning when he showed up at his flat, snickering as a pretty brunette snuck out wearing one of Niall’s wrinkled plaid shirts and last night’s skirt, instead of hauling his pale arse out of bed to help Liam.)

(He should’ve ignored Zayn’s _five_ text messages about joining them, mid-afternoon.)

(Liam should’ve waved Harry off when he whined from the sofa about being too busy to register for his own wedding gifts, pleading with Liam to go instead.)

He sighs, turning away to scan over a few wine glasses he thinks Louis might adore.

(Classic, unimposing, the way he still imagines Louis is.)

“Don’t be a twat,” Liam grunts and he’s not looking at either of them but he’s certain it’s meant for both of them.

Fingers tickle up his hip and Liam jolts a little, relieved when he finds Niall smirking at him while Zayn frowns at a collection of dinnerware in a corner.

“Is there something I’m missing ‘cause – “

The insinuation in Niall’s tone, the lift of his smile, the awkward tease behind those electric blue eyes makes Liam duck his head to disguise all of the flush in his cheeks.

(Because – _no_. Absolutely not.)

“Fuck right off,” Liam hisses, his shoulders tightening. “Wouldn’t even think of it.”

“Right, sure,” Niall says with a laugh, hip-checking Liam towards the silver photo frames. “Christ, t’at sounds insane, right? I mean, who would even _think_ poor Payno, who hasn’t had a decent shag in – “

“I have,” Liam argues quickly, pushing the lie past his teeth.

Niall rolls his eyes, finding a few more items not on the list to scan.

“Why would you even bother chatting up a lad other than Tommo, yeah? I mean, ‘s not like you couldn’t use a good fuck,” Niall hisses, his lips still twisted into one of those absently manic smiles Liam loves best on him.

“I don’t need a good _anything_ , mate,” Liam huffs, clearing a row of horrible looking kitchenware items from the registry. “M’fine.”

“You’re a prick,” Niall giggles, nudging past Liam. “Who needs a good prick up yer – “

Liam groans loudly, reaching out to wreck Niall’s hair with his fingers.

“He’s a tit, mate,” Liam whispers.

“Doesn’t look that way t’ me,” Niall shrugs, curling an arm around Liam’s wide shoulders. “Plus, like. He keeps _staring_ at you, bro.”

Liam leans back a little, peeking around the tornado of Niall’s peroxide hair, catching Zayn biting unconsciously along his bottom lip, watching Liam with a tilted head. They both look away instantly and Liam’s cheeks throb with embarrassment.

“He’s an asshole,” he pouts.

“Fuck off,” Niall laughs, loudly, ignoring all of the stares directed at them from passing customers. “He’s _fit_ , dude. He’s got that, I dunno – like that broody thing? Like one of ‘em _Twilight_ lads or something. Shit. I’d let ‘im fuck me.”

Liam snorts, scrubbing his fingers along the back of Niall’s skull. “Startin’ to think you’d let any bloke with a nice smile bang you, idiot.”

Niall lifts his shoulders carelessly, grinning. “ _So_ ,” he starts, his voice dragging deviously, “you think he’s got a nice smile?”

“I – _oh_. No?”

The echo of Niall’s laugh leaves Liam flushed and he shoves Niall away quickly.

(He hates him, honestly, but Liam doesn’t want to imagine life without someone like Niall. The bastard.)

“Hey,” Zayn whispers, shrugging into Liam’s sight, looking sheepish, even with his cocky grin.

Niall swoons soft Amy Winehouse from a few yards away and Liam’s shoulders go slack, his spine curling, his expression wrinkled. He thinks of tossing the scanner at Niall’s head when he hears a _‘why don’t you come on over Valerie’_ in a soft baritone.

Instead, he watches Zayn’s mouth twist into something shy, uncontrollably kind with crooked lines and sharp teeth.

“I’m gonna go check out the ladies’ lingerie,” Niall announces, puckering his lips and making flashy kissing noises as he stumbles off, still laughing. “You two should, like, get over to the bedding section. Fine a nice mattress – for the lovely couple, ‘course. Test ‘em out first.”

Liam ignores Niall’s achy cackle all the way down to the lifts, turning on his heels, scowling as he moves through the aisles towards the bedding section, Zayn keeping a steady pace with him.

They shift through the displays, quiet and distant, stealing little looks at each other like –

Liam tries not to think about what it means or why he keeps watching Zayn bite softly over his lower lip.

(It’s daft and he hasn’t found a reason to be fond of Zayn – not yet.)

“So you don’t think,” Zayn pauses, teeth tugging at his lip, a hand smoothing over a soft duvet, skimming over gentle sheets, “it’s a bit much? All of the shops for gifts? Selfridges. An antique shop. Harrods?”

Liam sighs, shoving at memory foam until a handprint remains.

“You don’t get it,” he mumbles, edging around a few beds, tugging at pillows as he passes just to mess up the displays. “It’s not just _stuff_. It’s a kettle that Harry will make Louis’ favorite tea from because Lou loves up good cuppa after dinner. And it’s a pot for the roast Harry will make on Sundays for the three of them. It’s the bed – “

“Don’t finish that part,” Zayn teases, tossing a pillow at Liam.

He catches it one-handed, a half-smile on his lips. “A bed the three of them will longue on during rainy days. A happy family.”

And under his breath, under a heavy sigh and something somber, “ _Harry’s_ family.”

“Yeah, but,” Zayn says, flicking up an eyebrow, “S’not what a marriage is ‘bout, right? Loads of stuff.”

“Mementos, mate,” Liam says.

“Fancy word,” Zayn taunts with a lopsided smile that Liam –

(He’s not _enamored_ with it but – yeah. It’s lightweight and absolutely the opposite of the sort of smile Louis wears.)

(Liam’s not quite sure what that means and he bins those thoughts for a moment.)

There’s a large bed in the middle of the displays, something welcoming with cotton (not the expensive, Egyptian thread, a dozen throw pillows all over that Harry would adore) and the sheets untidy and the duvet wide like the ocean. It’s that sweet, clean smell and completely unsuspecting – like an early sunrise. A sky made of pinks and orange rather than sea blue.

Liam grins at it and something throbs in his chest before he shrugs playfully at Zayn. He sprints around the other beds and leaps backwards with open arms into the abyss of soft, soft, soft.

He’s giggling and unintentionally child-like for a moment, waving his arms around like he’s making snow angels before shifting over a little. Before straining his neck to look up at Zayn, tapping an open space on the cold duvet next to him.

Zayn smirks at him, punching at the dead space until the mattress bounces back before easing down onto the bed, nudging close, a tiny gap between their shoulders.

“A bit comfy, innit?” Liam wonders, kicking his feet back and forth.

There’s an approving hum, a quiet breath next to him and he stares up at the ceiling. He watches Zayn shoot lasers high above their heads, mapping out stupid imaginary constellations.

(And Liam doesn’t know why, in this quiet moment, he feels vulnerable. He feels _ready_. Trusting.)

“My mum,” he whispers with something hushed playing through the store’s speakers, “she died when I was a much younger lad.”

“With curly hair?” Zayn asks, absently.

A smile twitches at the corners of his mouth but he ignores it. He flutters his eyes shut until he can feel the gossamer of his lashes over his cheeks.

“I don’t always remember much about her,” he adds, his voice wobbly but easy, “but I remember her always talking about her wedding day. The way she felt. How she looked. How me pops kept smiling the whole time.”

Zayn’s still next to him, just solid breaths Liam counts, unconsciously, in his head until he’s ready again.

“It was small but it was her favorite day she’d say,” Liam murmurs, keeping his eyes closed. A giggle tickles his lips before he adds, “Other than the day I was born.”

“Course,” Zayn laughs, a smoky noise that Liam wraps around.

(For _comfort_ and he doesn’t understand why.)

“She just – she always walked me through it, at bedtime,” he continues, sniffing, sinking into the duvet, “like one of those fairy tales or summat.”

“S’cool,” Zayn whispers and their knuckles, in the divide, brush in time with the music.

Liam half-smirks with flexing eyelashes sweeping on his cheek. “And then Harry came along. Harry and Anne,” he says, lower, biting at his lip. “And I ‘member Anne wanted a big wedding. Massive. More than my pops could afford.”

(And he remembers, sadly, his father working extra shifts at the factory and nights of Liam tucking Harry into bed rather than long, soft stories about modern fairy tales.)

“But she wanted me to be apart of the whole day,” he grins. “Every little bit. Anne wanted me there. And it was a brilliant wedding, really. The tops.”

“Like Harry wants?” Zayn wonders.

(Liam fingers absently start to draw odd shapes into Zayn’s open palm, over the callous and the soft flesh, lazy lines all over his skin.)

“Like Harry wants,” he repeats, under a long breath.

“My parents were simple, too,” Zayn says, his voice warm and throaty with the sort of accent Liam finds himself addicted to. “They met on accident, over tea. Me baba, bless him, thought my mum was his blind date. Turns out she was just studying up for university when he walked up and sat down at her table. He felt like a knob.”

(Liam listens carefully to the easiness in Zayn’s voice, the roll of his laugh a little louder than the music, his own breathing.)

“They married off not long after,” Zayn smiles and Liam can hear it in his voice without looking. “Proper poor couple. Mum borrowed her dress off one of my aunts. My grandfather really fancied how in love my baba was with my mum that he even found an imam for the ceremony – in his backyard.”

Liam turns on his side just enough, blinking his eyes open. The lighting is rich and it makes all of Zayn’s sharp edges fuzzy and smudged, his profile soft.

“Late summer,” Zayn whispers, his mouth tugged upward, eyes like a field of gold as he keeps staring up at the ceiling. “It looked sick. Very natural, man.”

Liam eases onto his back again and his fingers (off of reflex, off a need) start to circle Zayn’s palm once more.

“Think I’d like that one day, y’know? Something small, simple,” Zayn hums and his next breath is hitched when he whispers, “Don’t think they’d like it, though. Haven’t really spoke to me much since – well, they’re a bit _indifferent_ about me fancying lads. It’s – “

 _A need_ , Liam thinks, his fingers burning the same lazy lines into Zayn’s palm.

“They just haven’t adjusted, I s’ppose,” Zayn finishes, his words easing next to the _‘my broken pieces you picked ‘em up’_ overhead. “They don’t – they don’t hate me. S’complicated, I guess.”

“Not really,” Liam shrugs sluggishly. “S’that why you aren’t into weddings? Your parents? Or did someone just break your heart and leave you at the altar?”

It’s teasing. It’s meant to be blithe, mocking like all of Zayn’s words usually are but –

“Exactly.”

Liam peeks up, his teeth sucking in his lip, his eyebrows furrowed between the _‘I don’t wanna be needing your love I just wanna be deep in your love’_ and a pitchy _‘your sugar, yes please’_ when Zayn’s mouth twitches into a frown.

“Great girl. Massive smile and bright blue eyes,” Zayn sighs. “And she left me two days before our wedding. A year of dating at the start of uni and she decided she was in love with her best mate. Her maid of honor, even.”

He can’t help it – Liam sinks into the duvet. His fingers still at the heart of Zayn’s palm and regret sits on his tongue, leaves his throat numb and dry.

“Not really gutted over it anymore, but – “

Liam stares at the ceiling, refusing to blink, until it hurts.

“So, yeah, I’m a bit fucked up,” Zayn admits, closing his eyes. “Y’know all my secrets now, alright? Now leave it alone.”

They stay quiet, watching the ceiling, Liam’s fingers still pressed hotly to Zayn’s palm until –

He drags his fingers into the open spaces between Zayn’s and twists them together, for a second, for an exaggerated breath that lightens something in his chest.

“Harry does want a load of stupid shit,” he smiles and he’s in the fucking _clouds_ , gravity suspended, when Zayn squeezes back at his fingers.

“Wanna go and register him for a cheap toaster and shitty curtains?” Zayn offers.

There’s a thick _‘yes’_ on his tongue when the clerk clears her throat loudly, standing over them with Niall grinning smugly over her shoulder, winking at Liam when he cranes his neck to look up.

The clerk sighs, rolling her eyes, pretty red lipstick making her smile striking from this fuzzy view.

“Tell me,” Niall says, loud and deviously, “how is the headboard for this model? Is it noisy? Might my friends try it out, y’know, _privately_?”

Liam goes pink and half-turns into Zayn, almost forgetting how easily it is to feel discouraged around him when Zayn’s laugh is so bright, warm against Liam’s temple.

 

+++

 

It’s an accident, Liam swears, the moment he nudges into Louis’ office with his head down –

He thinks its Niall’s fault, really, with his loud banter and stupid jokes when Liam was meant to be focusing on messaging the caterer, not reading tweets from Zayn –

(Well, _Z. Javadd_ , actually.)

 **@ZJavaddtheTimes:** _‘Life is a funny thing, the minute you think you’ve got everything figured out something comes along and turns it all upside down :D mwah x’_

(“S’bout you,” Niall swears, leaning over Liam’s shoulder, dragging his morning smile over Liam’s cheek.

“It’s not,” Liam swears but his lips betray him – wiggling into a soft smile, his heart out of rhythm.

“He fancies the shit out of you, you knob,” Niall argues, pinching Liam’s cheek, messing up a stack of papers just to steal Liam’s coffee.

Liam barely notices. He stares for a long breath at his phone, blinking hard until all of the words go fuzzy.

Until he stops believing a single word Niall has ever said to him.)

He’s still staring at the tweet with a crooked half-smile because –

Liam knows it could be about _anything_ or _anyone_. And he’s not – he doesn’t _like_ Zayn. Not like _that_. He _can’t_. Zayn is nothing like the kind of boy Liam imagines himself dating. Or snogging. Or –

Zayn is not his type is what it is.

There’s a stack of folders in his arm, a freshly brewed cup of tea for Louis in his hand, a bag of his favorite bagels balanced on the folders, and Liam’s ( _unconsciously_ ) humming a Coldplay tune that’s something he’s certain Louis’ played a dozen times when he’s trying to think.

A tune Louis would hum while passing Liam’s desk, early morning, before dragging a hand over Liam’s buzz cut, laughing when Liam would duck away with blush speckling his cheeks.

Before Harry, when it was just Liam.

Liam and Louis – but not _like that_.

And it’s an accident when he stumbles in, still humming, lifting his head to watch –

Louis is leaning on his toes, palms flat over the glass, smiling against Harry’s mouth. He’s nudged between Harry’s knees with Harry perched on the desk, a hand in Louis’ hair, a late morning sun striking over the ring on Harry’s finger.

The knot of Louis’ tie is undone, the smooth line of Harry’s spine outlined by his stretched flannel shirt. A rush of sloppy mouths and the pink of a tongue and Harry’s soft mewl when Louis bites gently along his bottom lip.

Liam falters, electric shock in his next breath, a hiccupped noise he can’t drag back inside of his throat.

Louis laughs gently against Harry’s mouth, cheeks going shamelessly pink as he drags away, flopping down into his chair while Harry sighs, hopping off of Louis’ desk.

“So-Sorry,” Liam mumbles, keeping his eyes low while spilling tea on the carpet, dropping the files onto a corner of Louis’ desk.

(He can feel the strings around his heart snapping, his lungs chasing the next breath, his skin flushed from embarrassment.)

“Just wanted to, um,” Liam pauses around a swallow that catches deep in his throat, “Just dropping off the paperwork you asked for. It’s for the, um, the charity event you wanted to do next month? A children’s benefit?”

Louis chuckles quietly into his knuckles while Harry slides down into his lap. A small hand curls around Harry’s hip and Liam –

He doesn’t _stare_. He doesn’t flinch at tan fingers over skintight jeans or the natural fit like gears sliding into a groove.

“Yeah, cheers, mate,” Louis laughs. “Thanks, Li, but Leigh-Anne already took care of it f’r me. Sort of needed that last week.”

“ _Oh_.”

Liam ducks his head, a hand instinctively cupping the nape of his neck, his eyes a bit glassy at glaring too hard –

Fucking hell.

“S’alright,” Louis grins while his fingers play along Harry’s ribs.

“Christ, Leeymo, hope you’re not as awful helping me plan off this wedding,” Harry teases, scrunching his eyebrows, “I don’t want to be a week late walking down the aisle.”

Liam’s lips twitch, a frown almost playing over them but he steadies his jaw and shoots Harry an annoyed face instead.

“Hey, Liam is brilliant at loads of things,” Louis argues with a teasing giggle chasing his words, a strong hand cupping Harry’s jaw. “He’s amazing at his job – well, most of the time.”

Harry huffs a laugh and they lean into each other, so close, until Liam averts his eyes and hums a little louder to drown out the wet slide of their mouths.

“Which reminds me,” Louis grins, lips wet from Harry’s tongue. He stretches around Harry to drag an envelope from under the messy stack of folders on his desk. “Friend of a friend left me some tickets for organizing his next event. The Knicks are in town.”

He waves the envelope back and forth and Harry wrinkles his brow.

“The _who_?”

Liam can barely hold back his disappointed sigh, his shoulders dropping, something tight wrapping around his spine when Louis laughs into Harry’s chest.

“Basketball,” Liam mumbles with his lower lip pinned down by his teeth.

“NBA, sweetheart,” Louis hums with this admiringly dumb smile on his lips just for Harry.

(Always for Harry. The fucking _world_ just for Harry.)

Harry shrugs carelessly, dragging long fingers into Louis’ already wrecked hair –

(And Liam wants to smack his hand away, wants to fix Louis’ hair and adjust his tie and – he wants the fuzzily soft Louis he knows. The Louis he loves – _wait, no, not now_.)

“Sorry, ‘m just not into, like,” Harry groans, a petulant frown on his lips, “I’m too busy paying attention to footy and Manchester United – “

(Liam snorts, covers it with a feigned yawn when Louis peeks around Harry with a raised eyebrow.)

“So, you don’t wanna?” Louis wonders, leaning back.

Harry brushes a quick peck to Louis’ lips, shaking his head. His fingers tighten in Louis’ hair (Liam’s heart tightening in his chest, bound by wire-strong string, suffocating him) when he presses their foreheads together.

“I thought we had dinner plans, Lou Bear? That one restaurant you know I love,” Harry pleads, a tactical smile that Liam _knows_ –

(Since they were younger, the one Harry uses to get out of cleaning the dishes and to bail on detention after school and the one that always wins him a date on Friday nights while Liam is sat in bed, studying, trying to be better.)

(Trying to be _someone_.)

Louis’ lips stretch into something terribly fond, gives a half-nod with their foreheads still knit together, knocking curls into his face. They giggle together and barely pull apart for Louis to wave the envelope at Liam.

“You go,” he insists, twisting enough to look at Liam. “You love a good sport match as much as me, right? Didn’t you say you played basketball before sixth form?”

A wasted blush seeps into Liam’s cheeks because – well, Louis remembered.

(A tiny conversation, over coffees, after Liam’s first interview about nothing really. About their families and growing up and their love for sports. A clear sky and a warm breeze and that mischievous little smirk on Louis’ lips that Liam fell in love with. Accidentally.)

“Take Horan with you, yeah? M’sure he’d love it,” Louis suggests.

“Or maybe find an actual _date_ in this city,” Harry offers, wriggling his eyebrows, biting out a smile. “Maybe ring up Preston? He’s been asking about you.”

Liam tightens his jaw and refuses to expose his frown when he plucks the tickets from Louis’ fingers. He nods once, quickly, turning on his heels and dragging his feet all the way out of Louis’ office.

(All the way away from the sound of their giggles and breathless snogging and from a Louis that feels foreign to him.)

 

+++

 

“So, is this a date?” Zayn asks, grinning into his cup of beer.

They’re two rows from courtside, the arena bright and throbbing with noise and a dozen different players being announced loudly over the speakers. Liam is leaning away from Zayn, biting his lip, watching all of the practice shots rather than looking at Zayn –

(Because Zayn is nothing to look at, honestly – not with his lethally tight Henley, all of the buttons undone, a soft honey canvas marked with ink and strong collarbones. Not his dark hair pushed back, his glasses missing, his jaw still sharp under a light smudge of stubble. Ripped jeans, sleeves shoved to his elbows to expose more ink.)

But their knees are touching, creating a kindle. A warmth.

(A few seconds from a raging fire Liam’s certain he would have with anyone else – anyone but this smug bastard who writes the most poetic – _fuck_.)

“S’not a date,” Liam mumbles, refusing to look at Zayn even when his lips quirk a little. He ducks his head when Zayn laughs. “You have to _like_ someone t’ date ‘em.”

He turns his head and watches Zayn smile crookedly before Liam narrows his eyes, lips still chasing a smile, adding, “I don’t like you.”

“That’s fair,” Zayn shrugs, slouching down in his seat. “But it still seems like a date.”

“It’s not,” Liam says around a laugh he can’t control.

It breathes warmth and smoke into his lungs, the lights overhead too bright because Zayn almost looks abashed next to him.

Liam sighs out a breath, stealing a handful of greasy popcorn from the box in Zayn’s lap. His tongue absently licks the shine away from his fingers, the salt sticking to his lips, Zayn’s knee brushing against his between all of the cheering and thumping music.

“I just needed some company,” he admits, low and a bit sad.

“But you could’ve – “

“No,” Liam huffs, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Just wanted – it’s not _you_ , but. I needed someone different, alright? Not anyone, like – fuck. I shouldn’t’ve bothered.”

Something twists uncomfortably in his stomach and he just wants to go home. He wants to burrow under the blankets until Loki sniffs him out and he doesn’t want to hear anything but the noise of the city.

He doesn’t want to feel a thing.

“Hey, s’cool,” Zayn whispers, leaning in, a warm hand easing up Liam’s knee, over his thigh. It’s not intimidating or obscene – it’s comforting.

“M’different,” Zayn shrugs, leaning into Liam’s vision, smiling. “I don’t mind.”

Liam nods slowly, slumping down in his seat. He licks the salt from his lips and he watches Zayn tilt his head, his smile still crooked and dopey. Liam only manages to half a smile for him but – it feels relaxing.

It feels like his first genuine smile in hours and – _fuck_ – he’s not certain when Zayn started to feel a little like an anesthetic rather than a threat.

“It’s not a date,” Liam mumbles, biting his lip, knocking Zayn’s hand away when Zayn laughs breathily next to him.

(And after the first buzzer and with Zayn watching the court intently, Liam leans in until their shoulders touch, steals half of Zayn’s popcorn and he’s so thankful when Zayn doesn’t comment.

He’s so grateful when all Zayn does is grin unevenly.)

After halftime, when their voices have gone rough from screaming at referees and laughing at horrible plays on the court. After they’re half-buzzing off beers and sat a little closer, Zayn yawns softly and stretches his arms high above his head. It’s so causal – one of his arms easing down around the back of Liam’s chair, inching up to his shoulders. Liam can’t help himself – snorting a laugh and shaking with it but he doesn’t shrug Zayn away.

He leans into it, momentarily, tossing a handful of leftover popcorn at Zayn when a lazy smile drags over pink lips.

It’s the alcohol in his blood that makes Liam so _unaware_ until he blinks up to the jumbo screens high above the court. That silly kiss cam is focused in on a couple next to him but they’re insufferably _shy_ with giggles and pink cheeks and hands covering their faces. His eyes crinkle with a laugh and he’s so absorbed in all of it that he barely notices the fingers along his jaw.

A patient thumb rubbing at his chin.

He barely blinks before Zayn turns his head just enough to flutter a kiss (soft, unsuspecting, playful, slick lips from a nervous tongue) to a corner of Liam’s mouth.

The crowd cheers wildly when Liam ducks his head, slouches down into his chair. His cheeks have gone a sharp pink and Zayn ( _the arrogant asshole_ ) waves to the camera until all of the noise rattles high into the rafters.

(And Liam, with goosebumps chasing up his arms and Zayn nudging him, doesn’t even bother to shift away.)

Long fingers spread over his thigh in the fourth quarter and Liam studies them. There’s all of these empty spaces that Liam thinks of filling but –

It’s _Zayn_.

(Who is not Louis, who is an artificial daydream composed of beautiful words written into Liam’s daily newspaper – he’s not something to fill the void with.)

Instead, he cheers for the opposite team just to see Zayn’s indignant expression and laughs when they score.

“So you’re telling me,” Liam starts, leaning in enough that his whisper-shout stays between them, “you don’t believe in a single word you write about? None of those weddings affect you.”

“Nope.”

“Not a single one?” Liam challenges.

Zayn grins in Liam’s peripheral, dark eyes like dimming stars and his jaw twitches for his next set of words.

“None.”

“C’mon,” Liam sighs, shoulders dropping. “You’re not a little sentimental?”

Zayn chokes out a laugh and Liam thumps his shoulder in retaliation.

“Alright,” Zayn huffs, squeezing back in, their shoulders touching. “Some. Only a little. Some are quite extraordinary, really. Honestly.”

Liam nods, biting his lip, restraining his smile at the thought –

(Zayn in a corner of some church, glasses hanging on the edge of his nose, studying the bride, sinking in deep breaths when the groom stutters over all of his lines, smiling when the sunlight spills into the room at the right moment.)

“But it’s such a fuss, y’know,” Zayn continues with dark strands falling into his eyes. “All of it. I don’t think – why bother? Shouldn’t that _‘moment’_ be about two people madly in love?”

Liam chews the inside of his mouth. He blinks at Zayn, his breaths slow and steady. It’s dumb – like a staring contest. Like waiting for someone to blink first.

He smiles when Zayn falters just a little.

“You’re just a huge softy, admit it,” Liam giggles.

Zayn scowls at him, a wrinkled nose and hard eyes and Liam shrugs teasingly before finding a comfortable position – next to Zayn.

A cocoon of heat from the sold out arena and the beer in their systems and this pocket of heat from every little pinpoint where their bodies touch – knees, shoulders, Liam’s fingers trailing absently over the back of Zayn’s.

He doesn’t bother arguing why Zayn should love weddings this time – it seems impractical.

It seems like a waste of words he’ll want to scribble into his notebook later on.

 

+++

 

London is an oasis of rain just after midnight when the game is over.

Dense, heavy drops of rain splatter along the pavement, the streets crowded in nothing but jagged lines of yellow cabs and red brake lights. All of the neon signs lit up, a dark moss of green outlined by electric white for meters.

They stumble out laughing, shoulder to shoulder, watching the world run for cover.

There’s still a buzzing flood in his system from his third beer and he pleads _insanity_ when he grins up at the charcoal sky and tastes the first few drops of rain on his tongue. He feels the current of something unfamiliar in his blood ( _spontaneity_ , he thinks, weighing the word on his tongue and trying to remember the definition) before leaping out into a puddle, splashing the rain over abandoned cars near the sidewalk.

“You’re mental,” Zayn says from under a canopy, tugging his jacket closed.

Liam shoots him a crooked grin, wrinkling his nose.

“People say ‘m no fun anymore,” Liam laughs, slick streams of rain spilling over his cheeks. “They say I’m a bit of a bore.”

“Do they say this before or after the crazy pills, mate?” Zayn asks, biting along his smile, pale red lips stretched wide.

Liam flips him off with a chuckle, spinning under sheets of rain. Droplets sit heavy on his eyelashes like dew hanging from a leaf and he’s soaked before he shuffles up to Zayn.

“C’mon,” he insists, scrubbing a hand through Zayn’s hair.

Zayn whines and shoves him away but it’s followed by a laugh. By wild eyes like a half-moon over the desert.

“C’mon, Zayner,” Liam repeats with a carefree grin. His breath runs through him in this melodic, relaxing way and he licks sour rain from his lips before stretching out a hand. “C’mere you.”

Wide eyes watch him from under the shadows of the canopy and all of the bright signs around them streak across the puddles like fireworks over solid ice.

A soft frown sketches over Zayn’s lips in the shadows before he exhales heavily.

“You’re an idiot.”

“And you’re mad if y’think I’m gonna stay out here alone,” Liam counters, smirking.

Something unconsciously loud pulses in his chest when Zayn drops his shoulders, shaking his head with a hesitant smile before he’s ducking out into the rain, stumbling all the way up into Liam’s stretched arms.

Liam circles Zayn’s hips with his arms and tugs him in close, laughing into Zayn’s neck, lifting him up and spinning them dizzily under their cold London waterfall.

“You dick,” Zayn snorts, his nose scrubbing along the crook of Liam’s neck, Liam’s arms going loose around Zayn’s wiry frame.

“Shut up.”

Zayn pulls in a deep breath and they’re stitched together under the rain, from feet to chest, not bothering to stare at each other like Liam knows happens in all of those dumb romantic comedies.

Instead, Zayn pushes the hair out of his face and Liam’s fingers twist into Zayn’s belt loops to keep him close.

(He watches Zayn’s mouth and the way his teeth bite at a bottom lip and the thin drops waiting on Zayn’s beautifully long lashes and thinks of _‘that first kiss scene we all love’_ Niall once teased him about while watching _Spider-Man_ last summer.)

And it’s equally serendipitous in ways Liam won’t ever be able to describe when Zayn –

His lips quirk and rain flicks off of his eyelashes when he leans up. Liam freezes with wide eyes and he feels like a stereotype – like the idiot teen waiting on the girl to make the first move.

But he ducks in first this time. He slots his lips against Zayn’s and flutters his eyes shut when Zayn kisses back. He tastes rain and sour beer and the mint from Zayn’s gum in one breath. He melts into it when Zayn cradles the back of his head with a wet hand and that contagious feeling of ( _unpredictable_ ) in his lungs spreads all over when Zayn kisses him like a thunderstorm –

Like a _hurricane_.

Like that hollow, calm moment at the heart of a tornado.

He feels awake but drowsy from the alcohol. Zayn’s teeth nibble gently over his bottom lip and he sinks into it, all heart without the glory, until Zayn pulls away with shiny lips.

“Awkward?” Zayn wonders.

Liam flushes and he’s so thankful for the dark sky and heavy rain because he doesn’t think Zayn can see it.

But there’s drunken catcalls from a few cabs dragging by and the rush down Liam spine leaves him a little uncomfortable.

“Yeah?” Liam shrugs.

Zayn laughs, smearing a thumb over Liam’s bottom lip like he’s cleaning off his own saliva.

“We should,” Liam sighs, his hand hot where it cradles the small of Zayn’s back, “Maybe we should – food? M’hungry, like – “

A lazy smile lifts Zayn’s lips and all Liam can hear is a distorted _‘what are you waiting for take a bite of my heart tonight’_ from a passing car.

“Thought this wasn’t a date,” Zayn teases with scrunched eyes.

Liam groans out a frustrated breath, pulling away but he catches Zayn’s fingers in a loose link.

“It’s definitely not,” Liam mumbles, dragging Zayn between stalled cabs and through the traffic. “You’re just keeping me company.”

 

+++

 

They’re dripping all over the table at some late-night bar-grill that specializes in Indian cuisine, smiling and still breathing hard from running three blocks in the storm. They squish together and stretch their legs out in a comfy booth even though the space is massive and there’s room on either side of them.

But this – it feels better.

Liam doesn’t know any of the dishes on the menu but Zayn orders all of his favorites for them to share and pleads to the waitress for a fresh pot of steamy green tea.

He doesn’t admire Zayn from this distance – because they’re too close to notice – but his eyes get stuck on the patterned ink over the back of Zayn’s hand and the stretch of his collar to expose the tattoos over his collarbones.

Liam stares at the soft, thick fringe falling in Zayn’s eyes and the way he hums along with the music even if he doesn’t know any of the words.

There’s a heat under their cold and damp skin, shoulders mashed together, thighs pulsing where they’re pressed together under the table.

“Sometimes,” Zayn whispers, his chin tucked to hide most of his smile while he uses the waitress’ pen to scribble silly doodles over a takeaway menu, “I watch the grooms at weddings. The poor bastards. Nervous as shit, mate. But the second they finish their vows, it’s like – “

(Liam breath hitches low in his throat, a sharp noise Zayn barely blinks at)

“S’like they can breathe again,” Zayn says, lower, almost to himself. “S’my favorite part, I think. Just watching the lucky bastard realize what he’s done. What all of the bullshit surrounding a wedding is actually worth.”

Liam follows the way Zayn’s tongue darts out to lick his lips. He studies the lines around Zayn’s smile and the unsteady glide of his pen over the menu.

(And he thinks about Zayn’s smile while they were kissing and the curl of his tongue when it flicked past Liam’s teeth and that feeling makes him feel underwater – _drowning_.)

“So, yeah,” Zayn laughs while his lips twist, “Not all of ‘em are that awful. Just unnecessary.”

There’s a group of mates laughing loudly from one corner of the restaurant and drunken university students re-living their first sexual experience in absurdly loud whispers and Liam ignores all of it.

He feels _alive_ and all of the electricity leftover from his buzz teases his nervous system into compliance.

“C’mon,” he whispers into Zayn’s neck, ducking close, twisting their fingers under the table before he’s squeaking over the cushion to drag Zayn out of the booth.

Zayn lifts his eyebrows curiously and Liam giggles over his shoulder, shaking his head.

He leads Zayn all the way down a narrow hall to a shared bathroom and shoves him inside, clumsily locking the door before anyone spots them.

 

+++

 

Liam knows this should be quick and dirty and shamelessly forgettable in the morning, yet it’s anything but.

His lips are still swollen from sloppy kisses, from his teeth twisting at his lower lip when Zayn sucked filthily at his birthmark. There’s an ache along his spine from Zayn nudging him into a wall to grind slowly and his fingers feel numb from pawing at Zayn’s spine to get his sticky shirt off.

Zayn is magical with his mouth – over Liam’s neck, across his collarbones, down and over a nipple, back to Liam’s lips.

He’s thoughtless when their trembling fingers work open their jeans and careful when he lifts Zayn up to trade places, nudging along Zayn’s hard cock through his briefs while pinning him to the wall, holding him up with one arm while using a spare hand to wreck Zayn’s hair.

Liam refuses to get on his knees in the bathroom (even if he considers perching Zayn on the basin, spreading his knees to leave love bites along the soft skin on the inside of his thighs before swallowing the head of his dick) and Zayn doesn’t beg him.

He whines into Liam’s mouth and thrusts back for more friction.

Long fingers wrap around the nape of Liam’s neck and guide him all the way to Zayn’s sternum until Liam’s mouth has mapped out a stain of red lips in the middle of Zayn’s chest a hundred times over.

They stumble, laughing, all the way to the sink with their jeans around their ankles and Liam’s certain there will be a bruise along his skin from the hard porcelain but he forgets all about it when Zayn’s mouth slicks over his again.

He kisses like it’s a necessity – a flick of tongue, a gentle nip, dragging along the fullness of Zayn’s lips. It’s a little addictive (the flavor of Zayn’s mouth and the unsteady hand along his bare hip and the way Zayn just _lets him_.)

“Don’t think I’ll blow you this time,” Zayn says, his voice husky and rough (and Liam smiles because he knows – fuck, _he knows_ ) when he pulls off. “But next time?”

“Just shut up,” Liam laughs, trying to choke it back down so no one hears.

(But he knows they can hear his ragged breathing and the softening moans trailing over his lips when Zayn kisses under his jaw and the way he just can’t keep quiet when Zayn teases fingers along the waistband of his pants.)

“I’m not like – I don’t do this, okay?” Liam assures him, sucking in a harsh breath, curling his fingers into the band of Zayn’s white pants.

(He loves the outline of Zayn’s dark cock, the way it stretches the material. He loves the way he can still make out the precome stains even though they’re both still damp from the rain. He likes the shiver that aches through Zayn when he thumbs at the head behind the thin material or the way Zayn’s dick fattens up even more the second Liam drags his hand away.)

“I don’t do this.”

Zayn smiles against his mouth, nodding.

“S’not a problem, babe,” he whispers, edging down Liam’s pants, fighting with the damp material until it’s under Liam’s knees. “We don’t have’ta talk about it.”

“No, but – “

“Babe,” Zayn groans, sighing, fitting his long fingers between Liam’s ribs, “just shut up.”

Liam’s lips twitch into a grin and he knocks their foreheads together for another kiss – softer, fonder, just a reminder.

(He’s not certain what for but it works and he relaxes under Zayn’s touch.)

Zayn flashes him an easy smile when he pulls back, cupping Liam’s jaw, dark eyes like the start of a black hole.

“S’okay,” he says with a scratchy voice. “Just stop thinking so much, alright?”

Liam barely gives him a nod, trembling below his chest, his cock weeping precome down the shaft with Zayn gripping finger-shaped bruises into his hip.

His cock jolts at Zayn’s whispering touches. The gentle fingers down his throat, over the soft hair on his chest, across his midsection until Liam almost wants to pull away. He flinches, instinctively, and Zayn eyes his splayed fingers over the soft of Liam’s tummy.

“Hey,” he whispers and Liam sways with the deep tone of his voice. “S’okay, alright? I like you like this. All of you. S’nice.”

Liam bites down roughly on his lip and presses back into Zayn’s touch. His cock smacks up against his belly, glittery drops of precome sticking in the soft hair under his navel. He can feel it – the way his dick blushes from a soft pink into a velvety red, the foreskin pulled tight but starting to recede.

Smooth fingers ghost over it until Liam shivers but refuses to jerk away. Zayn brushes the tips of his fingers along Liam’s balls, stroking in small circles while Liam’s cock squeezes out sticky drops that tickle down the shaft.

Zayn hums his approval and drags his thumb up the pulsing vein on the underside – just a tease.

A massive fucking _tease_ with brilliant hands and an addictive smile and eyes like swollen galaxies.

“Good lad,” Zayn whispers, edging his mouth over Liam’s, a ghost of a kiss that Liam trembles with.

“Now, bend over for me.”

The hesitation captured around his bones melts off at the sound of Zayn’s voice and Liam obliges so willingly that he feels foreign.

(It’s one of those out-of-body experiences Niall tells him about after smoking a bowl or an _‘absolutely amazing orgasm’_ but Liam thinks Niall would never know the difference.)

Liam turns and leans over the basin, pressing most of his weight on his forearms, tentatively spreading his legs and arching his spine.

“That’s it, babe,” Zayn whispers somewhere behind him, trailing delicate fingers down the smooth skin of Liam’s lower back.

He feels naughty –

( _Pornographic_ , he thinks, smiling down into the strained muscles of his forearms because, with a quiet admission, he _wants_ this.)

Instead of squeaking out a noise, he lets his breath break in half deep in his throat and shudders with this illicit gratification when Zayn hums his content under Liam’s heavy breathing.

Liam trembles with the first few soft, round kisses smeared down his spine. They come in slow, pinprick bonfires down his skin, a soothing tongue between breaths licking the salt and rain from his back. He breathes harshly into his forearms while smooth hands drag down his hips.

“Relax, relax,” Zayn mumbles into his skin – an invisible tattoo.

(A bruise he doesn’t want to fade.)

Liam shudders and the chords in his throat snap before he can utter anything. His skin flushes all over with Zayn’s delicate touches, with his warm breaths and swollen lips.

“Y’can do it, babe,” Zayn whispers, dragging his lips up between Liam’s tense shoulder blades. “Just relax.”

He swallows loudly and his teeth gnaw at his lip when his muscles finally succumb to the calm.

Tiny noises beat between his ribs, his cock jolting with each of Zayn’s suggestive kisses across his shoulders, down his spine again. It smacks loud and wet against his belly, flushed, a ruddy color in the fluorescent lighting.

Just a hard line, curving slightly, with a slick tip and soft skin stretching.

Liam thinks in geometry and angles for a moment to steal his mind away from Zayn’s hot breaths over his skin or the way his fingers dig into Liam’s hips when he crouches low enough.

A hand drags over the line of his arse, the soft flesh, nudging Liam’s thighs wider. He gasps into the sink, listens to the constant drip of the tap before –

“Be good for me, babe, want to help you out.”

Liam turns his head into the cradle of his forearms, smears sweat all over his tattoos. His spine bends instantly for the smile Zayn presses to one cheek, the brush of sharp stubble. He curls his fingers into fists, squeezing, half-pleading breathlessly at nothing.

He just wants so much.

He needs it more than he’s willing to admit and it’s been too, too long.

(His cock blurts a thick string of precome that sticks to his navel and creates a crystalized web when his dick shifts off of his belly – this webbed connection that makes him want to _beg_.)

(Liam just wants to edge back onto Zayn’s cock and burn this _want_ out of his lungs.)

The sweat inches down his brow, catching on his eyelashes, slicking the nape of his neck where his hair is shortest. He can’t react when Zayn drags openmouthed kisses along his cheeks, down the cleft – there’s too much heat around his face, making his chest blush a splintery red.

There’s too much tension in his tendons and down his forearms but everything below his chest relaxes into Zayn.

(Soothing, he thinks, dotted constellations of pleasure all over.)

His sore lips break for a needy little noise when Zayn draws off for a moment.

“Hey,” Zayn smiles into the small of his back, pressing a hot cheek there and Liam lights up on the inside. “I won’t let – I’ve got you. Got _us_ , okay? You’re shaking.”

“Fuck.”

Zayn’s tongue spins a pretty design to the dip in his spine. “How long ‘s been?”

Liam sucks in a quick breath that hollows out everything – his organs, his cells, his fucking outrageous heart.

“I can’t, like,” Liam squeezes his eyes shut, buries his embarrassed face into his arms. “Do we have’ta talk about it?”

A pink tongue, broad and strong, licks down the space Zayn’s fingers create between his cheeks.

“Nope. S’not necessary. Just, maybe you should – like, if it’s too much, you’ll tell me alright?”

Liam nods stiffly. He exhales like it’s his first breath after a plane crash.

His first gulp of oxygen after being buried in the sea.

Zayn eases a hand between Liam’s legs, across the damp-soft hairs on his thigh, a thumb stroking maddeningly slow across his premium until his fingers catch around the head of Liam’s cock. A calm squeeze around the shaft. Fingertips teasing up to the slick head, pushing the foreskin up and around the tip. Drawing it back, this repeat motion that Liam chokes at.

“So wet,” Zayn murmurs over Liam’s skin.

“Oh shit,” Liam hisses, biting into the muscles in his forearm.

(He doesn’t mind the deep marks his teeth create or the red flesh. It gives him something to concentrate on.)

Liam tenses and relaxes all over. His abdomen clenches with the rush of breaths he’s trying to pull in. He feels exposed and bare and he blinks up to the mirror above the basin. At his red cheeks and shiny eyes and bruised lips.

It’s dizzy and he feels bashful until Zayn whispers, “Look at you. So fucking wet, dripping all over me hand, babe. So sweet – so ready f’r me. Just _a_ -fucking- _mazing_.”

His balls draw up tight and that hot little coal at the center of his stomach just burns brighter.

“Still doing good, yeah babe?”

A burning flare in is chest – his pride, he thinks. His cock jerks between Zayn’s loose fingers and he mumbles something like a reply into his shoulder.

It’s a quiet admission and Liam’s startled at how quick Zayn moves afterwards.

His tongue, stiff and pointed, licks a lazy pattern around Liam’s clenched hole. It drags over and over, patiently, easing Liam into this inescapable state.

This edge he keeps toeing.

Zayn kisses over his hole, loud and sloppy and with this vigor Liam can’t name. It rolls in waves and pulls him back under, all of Liam’s muscles tensing and snapping away from the bone.

Liam tries to keep quiet – he swears he does.

His teeth work over his lower lip and he closes off his throat and chokes back moans. He breathes into his forearm, hovering on insanity, but none of it helps. None of it silences the whines and the soft yelps and the way his throat scrapes out whimpers he’s never heard himself make.

He eases back onto Zayn’s mouth and feels Zayn’s smug smile before he starts sucking, licking into Liam, swirling his tongue until his saliva drips down the inside of Liam’s thigh.

Zayn draws a hand down over one of Liam’s cheeks, a noisy smack when Liam squeezes at a grunt until he finally exhales it out.

“Don’t mind hearing you, babe. I like it.”

Liam gasps a moan into the sink and stretches, he fucking arches up into Zayn’s mouth and savors the raw rub of Zayn’s scruff between his cheeks.

Zayn twists his mouth and laps wetly around Liam’s hole. His tongue jabs over and over until Liam ( _fuck_ ) finally starts to break. He loosens and feels all of the muscles give.

He opens up so thoughtlessly for Zayn’s tongue.

Liam can feel his pulse, that erratic little drumming beat down the line of his chest and past his stomach, all the way through his throbbing cock. He can feel the sweat crawl down his back and Zayn’s unapologetically noisy behind him.

He’s incredible with his tongue and, gently, kissing Liam’s hole open like a mouth. He’s swollen lips and soft thrusts and easing fingers between Liam’s cheeks to rub at his slick hole.

To rub all of the saliva into his hole until Liam feels dirty. He feels – _lost_.

(It’s the sort of feeling he remembers from being a child in the back of his father’s car, barreling down a hill until your stomach drops out and you feel lightheaded with delight.)

Zayn moans over his hole, creeping his thumb up to push in. Liam’s so slick and slack that he barely reacts to the pressure of Zayn’s thumb.

He folds into the feeling and drags the sweat on his cheek over the back of his hand.

“Getting all loose, babe,” Zayn smirks, tugging his thumb away to shove his tongue inside.

Liam’s breaths echo over four walls. He blinks up to his reflection – to the blush and the heat and the dazed look in his eyes.

He drops his head quickly because – it’s too much.

“Oh fuck, _ah_ , _shit_ ,” Liam moans, almost croons into the sink.

Zayn’s lips are soft, plush over his hole. Hungry kisses that sting all the way to Liam’s stomach. Anxious fingers holding Liam open, a ring finger sliding in and Liam feels _full_.

He feels a need in his toes for Zayn to give him more – his mouth and his tongue and his cock.

His hips roll back into the touch, into the way Zayn licks around his own finger before screwing in and curling up and –

“Oh no, no,” Liam shudders but he fucking thrusts _down_ onto Zayn’s finger when it strokes over that bundles of nerves deep in Liam.

(He’s a car wreck – a pileup.)

“Too much?”

“No,” Liam hisses into his forearm, biting. “More. Fuck, Zayn, I can’t – _more_.”

His hole flutters around Zayn’s finger and all of the wind in his lungs is knocked away when Zayn adds another finger, twisting, curving.

The rhythm is fast and loud. His hole squelches with the spit, with the way Zayn’s fingers open him up. He gnaws down on his lip, adding enough pressure that his teeth almost break the skin and then he stops. His tongue licks out to soothe the sore flesh and _Zayn_ –

“Spread a little more f’r me, babe.”

His voice is scratchy and he sounds almost as fucked out as Liam feels.

Liam tries not to collapse, his thighs shaking where they shift apart and Zayn sighs happily before pulling his fingers out, replacing them with his tongue. A sloppy kiss, a constant jab that splatters the saliva around and Liam’s dick lurches, drips all over the tile by his feet.

The ache under his skin is constant. It’s a drum, a beating like a snare. His pulse picks out the rhythm and plays along.

“C’nna believe how much you need it, babe,” Zayn says, his voice scratched, his mouth hovering over Liam’s hole. “Think you’ll last when I get my dick in you?”

Liam shrieks out a noise, shaking his head.

“Do you need more fingers?” Zayn asks, not even waiting. He slides in two, separating them until all of Liam’s muscles stretch.

Liam trembles, curves his moans in his throat until he’s certain his voice is shot.

“No, ‘m good,” he replies after a stretch of messy breaths.

“But you’re so wet,” Zayn mumbles against his hole and it’s not until now Liam realizes Zayn’s still cradling his cock, still thumbing over the foreskin and adding pressure when he thinks Liam can handle it.

“Like you’re proper into this. Shit.”

Liam drops his head into his forearms, dragging his eyelids across the slick skin until the colors start to swirl from acid orange to euphoric green.

There’s a rush up his spine like he won’t escape this – like it’s something he’s been avoiding.

Like an ailment and Zayn is some sort of cure. He’s an antidote and some sick kind of medicine that Liam won’t be able to quit even when this is over.

(And he hates that because Zayn isn’t the kind of lad he wants to have this feeling over. Zayn is just a convenience and he’s been unable to work out all of those thoughts for weeks now.

He hasn’t been able to stop replacing a _Louis_ with a _Zayn_ when he knows, under that hollow feeling in his ribs, he’ll never really have either one of them.)

He’s dazed and exhales breaths too rough to be quiet. He barely recognizes the shuffling behind him until Zayn’s pressed to his spine, lining his skin with kisses, gently pulling off of Liam’s cock and holding up his hand.

In the dizzy light, his fingers shine. There’s precome smeared over every finger, sliding down his palm, silvery and glittery with thick pearl drops at the tips of Zayn’s fingers.

Liam swallows, stares harshly into the reflection where Zayn’s smiling against his shoulder.

“Do you always – has anyone ever gotten you that turned on?” Zayn wonders, muffling his words with smooth kisses up to the crook of Liam’s neck.

He doesn’t reply. He’s abashed and turning red but –

(Never. He can’t think of a single one-off or passionate night in bed or even – _never_.)

Liam watches the hand disappear like a magician but he can hear the slippery sound of Zayn slicking his own cock with the messy precome. He can see, in the mirror, the way Zayn’s face curls into something dreamy and Liam arches back to feel Zayn’s knuckles along his arse as he strokes himself off.

“I don’t need, like,” Liam stammers, lowering his chin to cover the blush, the bashful color spreading down his neck, “I don’t do _this_ , okay? But you can – “

Zayn bites at this soft juncture just behind his ear and Liam yelps.

He edges back until he can feel the stiff line of Zayn’s cock between his cheeks.

“You’ve said that already,” Zayn smirks, nosing over Liam’s jaw. “I know, I know. But what about me?”

Liam can barely swallow and his mind is sunken in a thousand different riptides.

“I – “

The words stall right on his tongue and their eyes meet in the mirror. Zayn’s are blown out, crinkled at the edges and Liam looks immensely guilty because he forces the words past his lips before he recognizes their meaning.

“I trust you.”

The quiet words hardly leave Liam’s lips before Zayn’s rubbing the blunt head of his cock over Liam’s slick hole. He snubs it over and over until Liam is shaking.

The anticipation seeps like hot liquid down his throat before Zayn gently nudges inside.

His hips flinch, his breath heavy when he drops his head, the fat tip of Zayn’s prick easing in. The pressure builds and it’s been too long but Liam relaxes into it.

He squeezes around the shaft and blanks out, for a second, until Zayn’s nestled up against him.

There must be kerosene on his skin because each flick of Zayn’s tongue over his shoulder ignites this achy moan in his chest. He turns his head a little to give Zayn more room and Zayn smiles across his skin, kissing and licking and biting this pretty design along Liam’s neck.

They shift together for Zayn’s first thrust. It’s a natural sort of flow – mercury in a bottle.

It’s a soft smack when their bodies meet again. It’s pressure, pressure, a wave slapping an empty beach. Hot breaths shoved into that space behind Liam’s ear, an ink-smeared hand covering Liam’s over the porcelain basin. Zayn’s hair half in his eyes and tickling Liam’s cheek.

“Oh Christ,” Liam stutters, his next breath hollow.

Zayn glows around him, smiling into his cheek, slamming back into him after a slow drag backwards. Their feet squeak on the floor and Liam tries to shove all of his strength into his legs and arms but Zayn thrusts into him so sweetly.

(The center of a chocolate – all caramel and unexpected flavor and Liam breaks apart for it.)

Their skin is sweaty, two embers sparking together to create an inferno. Fucking fireflies in the night – the echo of their grunts knocking all over the loo.

“So good,” Zayn murmurs into his ear, squeezing over his hand. “You’re _so good_ for me, man. Squeeze around me.”

Liam does without thinking. He clenches around Zayn’s cock and arches his spine high to give Zayn more of him.

He feels wet and open around Zayn and that ache from waiting too long since his last shag evaporates. It makes room for more of Zayn, all of him leaking into Liam like poison.

(No – like _dopamine_.)

“I just,” Zayn gasps, smacking a hand to Liam’s arse, screwing in deep. “Do you need more? Like I c’n – fuck, say _something_.”

“More,” Liam croons, inching back onto Zayn’s dick. It’s slick and fat inside of him, stretching him. “You can keep going, man – faster.”

Zayn laughs breathily over Liam’s cheek but he knocks his boney hips to Liam’s arse and complies. He shoves in hard and Liam nearly loses his balance.

He steadies his feet to push back, to take Zayn back in.

Liam breathes it all in like smoke – their scent, their moans, their hands white-knuckled over the sink to find a rhythm.

He sways, tilts his head until Zayn locks his mouth over that caramel birthmark, printing a new design over Liam’s skin like a tattoo.

His prick jolts up, sloppy precome staining his stomach and he hasn’t noticed how hard he still is. He’s too caught in every angle of Zayn’s cock and how their bodies melt into each other.

But it’s there – that flickering fire. Right in his belly, smoothing down, leaving his spine numb.

Liam hisses and gravity gives out on him. He feels upside down and tangled and his cock throbs between his thighs. It aches and twitches and the rush is impulsive.

Soft fingers catch his jaw and lift his head until he’s looking at them in the reflection. He’s staring at the shiny sweat across his brow and Zayn’s soft mouth forming keens and their bare skin smearing together.

“You look incredible, man.”

Liam tries to turn away but Zayn holds his face, cups his cheek, keeps his eyes on the mirror.

“You can watch,” Zayn swears, stretching his neck to kiss at Liam’s temple. “Gets me off. How beautiful you really are, man. Just look at us.”

Liam whimpers but his eyes stay steady.

“Look how fucking hard you are at me fucking you.”

It’s a shiver – starting at his thighs and echoing all the way up to his chest. The fire expands.

He presses up onto his elbows on the sink, trying to regain balance. Zayn keeps fucking down onto his prostate, these manic, rabbit thrusts that crack so loudly in the loo. His plush lips stay near Liam’s temple and Liam can’t stop it –

He bites his lip sharply and squeezes his eyes shut when the rush finally shatters.

He’s _never_ – Liam gasps wetly. His weeping cock jerks for a few thrusts before it squirts thick streaks of come all across the floor. Tiny puddles, his dick bobbing helplessly. It streams up to his belly, dripping down, everything fuzzy and cloudy.

His prick squeezes out a few more lines of come when he feels Zayn go tense behind him.

“Oh fuck,” Zayn shivers, squeezing an arm around Liam’s middle, pushing in deep. “Oh shit. Oh fuck, babe, _shit_.”

Liam breathes into his shoulder and feels Zayn twitch inside of him. His vision is still blurred and he feels languid.

He feels lazy and settled with Zayn still shoved deep inside of him.

“Oh, Liam,” Zayn whispers, smiling, shoving his lips over Liam’s cheek until Liam twists his neck uncomfortably to kiss him –

(Because that feels appropriate. It feels like a _need_ and there’s no substitution for the way Zayn kisses him back like he’s thinking the same thing.)

The push and pull subsides when Liam stumbles down onto his forearms again, Zayn tumbling with him until they’re shoved against the sink and refusing to move.

The loo is heady with their musk, with the sex, with their restless breaths dragging down the walls.

(And Liam smiles into his forearm and almost thanks Zayn but – something reminds him this was just a nameless moment.)

(He’ll forget it and he won’t feel a need to scratch poetic lines into his notebook about this for later reference.)

(Because Zayn is not his type and this sort of happiness is fleeting – it’s not the sort of fairy tale he wants to tell his children years from now.)

 

+++

 

(Their food has gone cold and their tea gross when they scramble back into the booth afterwards. They shoot the waitress apologetic smiles with flushed cheeks, mussed hair and she flicks an eyebrow up at them before walking away, giggling and shaking her head.

Liam leaves an extra twenty for a tip and Zayn scrawls out a _‘we cleaned up our mess!’_ that Liam whines at before they stumble out of the restaurant.

The rain is still thick, loud plops of water smacking large puddles and the sky is an endless line of grey.

Zayn grabs Liam’s hand and he doesn’t flinch away, even if he considers it, and they walk quietly back into the flood.

They don’t mention the marks on Liam’s neck or the soreness in Zayn’s thighs or the goodnight kiss Zayn gives Liam – on the cheek – outside of his building.

It’s easier this way and Liam thinks he’ll forgive himself after a good lie-in.

He thinks Zayn was the sort of distraction that keeps him from remembering Harry’s not home when he stumbles in and Louis hasn’t called him once since leaving the office.)

 

+++

 

“You slag,” Niall grins, perched on a corner of Liam’s desk, slipping fingers under his collar to press at a neat purple bruise just above the bone.

(Liam thinks he’s done an absolutely stealthy job of _hiding_ all of the marks, keeping his cuffs rolled down and staying at his desk, far from staring eyes. Until Niall, of course.)

“Go fuck off,” Liam hisses, shrugging away.

Niall snorts, leaning back, examining Liam like he can see through the cover up. Like he can see Zayn’s fingerprints on his hips or that dotted line of kiss-shaped marks under Liam’s jaw.

“Who’s the lucky lad?” Niall asks, lips curling and shifting sideways with his smile. “Or bird? Not really sure, like – is it still boys for you?”

Liam rolls his eyes, squeezing at his phone, refusing to look up.

A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth when he says, “Boys. Definitely boys.”

Niall nods slowly, scrunching his eyebrows like he’s concentrating. “Who is he?”

“Nobody,” Liam says under his breath. “A _nobody_ and a _nothing_ and not someone I’ll be discussing wit’ you, lad.”

“But bro – “

Liam smacks Niall’s knee and laughs roughly when Niall flicks him off.

“How’s it going with Josh?” Liam inquires just to distract Niall.

(Because he can still feel the eyes on his neck and over his blush and Liam’s sweating now, soaking his Oxford and the tension in his shoulders won’t leave him.)

Niall shrugs carelessly. “Nothin’ major yet,” he replies, drumming out a steady beat to the _‘singing a reckless serenade’_ humming from Louis’ office. “Asked him out for a pint. Just for a chat.”

Liam leans back, scrunching his face. “S’not your style, mate.”

Niall sighs and kicks out at Liam. “Yeah, well,” he huffs, “s’not like I do this all of the time, alright? I’m taking it slow, bro. Experimenting with the idea.”

“That’s what university is for,” Liam teases and Niall laughs noisily with crinkled blue eyes.

“He’s not,” Niall pauses, still breathing out laughs, “It’s weird, man. Like I can see me’self getting properly turned on by him. Rock hard boner, y’know?”

Liam makes a face and Niall waves him off.

“But I sort of want to, like,” Niall groans and rocks his feet back and forth. “I’m _interested_ in him, like. It’s weird. Crazy shit, Payno, I promise. Like we could be proper mates. Friends with benefits and stuff but, more romantic?”

“Sappy,” Liam whispers but he flashes Niall a fond smile that Niall can’t refuse.

(And it’s his second favorite thing about Niall – he’s unwillingly soft and mushy on the inside but only for Liam to see.)

“I’m canceling our friendship, dude,” Niall says with an artificial scowl. “You’re horrible. A right _tit_. Like one of those arseholes on the _Geordie Shore_ , fuck.”

Liam smirks, tapping Niall’s hip until he shifts off the stack of paperwork Liam reaches for.

“You’re into him,” he mumbles, smiling down at his pile of papers.

“Christ,” Niall whines, hopping off his desk, smacking Liam’s shoulder playfully. “Think you’re so brilliant now th’t you’ve finally gotten shagged. Unbelievable.”

A laugh tickles all the way up Liam’s throat when Niall stomps away and it comes in a short burst when Harry stumbles up with bright eyes and curls sweeping into his eyes and flushed cheeks.

Liam narrows his eyes for a moment and he recognizes that pleading look in Harry’s eyes immediately.

(Because he’s seen it a thousand times, directed at him or Geoff or to any man willing to fall for Harry’s charm – well, _every man_ , actually.)

“What d’you need me to do?” Liam asks, his voice flat, his throat squeezing around the annoyed noise he wants to make when Harry sighs contently.

“Lou has a meeting tonight but it’s his father-daughter night or whatever,” Harry groans, flopping onto Liam’s desk, knocking over an empty cup and messing Liam’s papers.

Green eyes turn into slits, Harry’s mouth curling into a pout.

Liam leans away from it, glaring at him.

“He wants me to babysit.”

Liam raises an eyebrow before smiling, folding his hands behind his head while his chair groans at him stretching out on it.

“Good,” he says, nodding. “It’ll be great quality time for you and your daughter.”

“My – “

Harry quickly looks down at his hands, his pout pursing, his brow furrowing like the next word will burn his tongue.

“Well, um, I’ve got a few mates in town for the wedding and all,” Harry whispers, still staring down at his hands. “And I promised I’d meet them for drinks. Show ‘em ‘round London. They’re from LA and – “

Harry lifts his head when Liam leans forward and he’s worrying his bottom lip white with his teeth, shoving curls out of his vision, raising his eyebrows expectantly at Liam.

“You want me to keep her?”

Harry shifts on the desk before nodding. “C’mon Liam, you two get along great and – “

Liam drags his tongue over his lips and tries not to scowl.

“But you’re the one marrying her father,” Liam reminds him, unable to lift the sternness from his voice when Harry falters. “Shouldn’t you, like, hang about with her some? Just the two of you.”

Harry waves him off, smiling like it’s a natural reaction. “Plenty of time for that, Leeymo. I’ll be in her life forever.”

(And Liam feels like – the cable snapping on the lift. The weight dropping too fast. All he can hear, stuck on repeat, is _‘forever’_ and, yes, that’s right. Harry will be with Louis forever.)

“’Sides,” Harry grins, tracing long fingers over Liam’s papers, careless motions that knocks them out of sorts, “You didn’t really have any plans tonight, yeah? Y’know, being single and stuff. Works out just fine. A bit of company f’r you and Hulk.”

“ _Loki_ ,” Liam corrects, cooling the stiffness in his throat.

Harry raises his eyebrows nonchalantly, easing off of Liam’s desk. He cups a hand over Liam’s cheek (a tactic that usually works but) and flashes him a pleading little grin.

“Drop her off around eight?”

Liam sulks into his chair and he doesn’t scold Harry. Instead, he nods slowly and waits for Harry to stroll around the corner, into Louis’ office, before finally exhaling a long breath.

(And the _‘no’_ he was waiting to shout at Harry sits awkwardly in his chest until his next full breath.)

(Liam swears he’s getting better at _this_ – just slowly.)

 

+++

 

Liam smiles to himself when he hears a healthy splash of water down the hall, the soft humming and giggling thickening his blood like honey.

“Alright in there Princess Penny? Almost done?” he calls from the kitchenette, scrubbing a hand through the back of his hair, shifting through a mountain of takeaway menus for the right one.

“Almost Clark Kent! Getting all wrinkly!” Penny shouts back and another splash slaps over tiles in the distance.

Liam snorts, ducking his head. He imagines the floor in his bathroom is soaked with bubbles and there’s probably a scent of lilac shampoo that won’t fade for weeks.

(And he’s maddeningly _in love_ with the idea.)

Loki comes scampering from the bedroom, covered in suds, stopping briefly to shake all the water out of his fur.

Liam grins down at him, shaking his head admonishingly. “Told you to stay outta there.”

Loki whimpers with large eyes, panting impatiently until Liam steps around him, laughing under the buzz of Penny’s loud humming.

A loud tapping at his door distracts him from popping in a DVD ( _Tangled_ , again, because Penny is a little bit obsessed and Liam always laughs at the thought of Niall being a bit like Flynn Ryder in his head) and he trips over Loki all the way to the door.

It swings open and this all feels a little familiar – Zayn leaning in the archway with a lazy, crooked smile, fits of fringe falling in his sharp eyes, scruff on his jaw and this certain tinge of arrogance that feels completely put upon rather than genuine.

“Hey you,” Zayn says, cheeks pushing at his eyes, a pink tongue peeking behind white teeth.

Liam scratches at the nape of his neck, fingers pausing on the short hairs, rocking on his heels.

“Hi.”

(It sounds so _daft_ when the word brushes against his lips and he thinks of all of those great chat-up lines he’s heard Andy use a dozen times over and – no, he’s not even _trying_ to impress Zayn but – )

Zayn snorts, biting the edge of his bottom lip, dragging his thumb underneath.

Liam purses his mouth, twists it crookedly. “What are you – “

Zayn waves him off, nudging inside without an invitation and Liam considers barking at him but –

He doesn’t know why he doesn’t, actually.

“Was s’ppose to meet up with Harry. Go over a few things for the article,” Zayn explains, moving about the longue, grinning when Loki follows him around. “But he called and said he had plans. Might’ve asked about you – “

“Because?” Liam wonders, tilting his head.

“Doesn’t matter,” Zayn mumbles, sweeping the strands from his face, “Told me you were sat in tonight?”

Liam hums, hip-checking the door closed, swiping a hand down his face. He sighs into his palm, leaning against the door.

“Tea party,” he shrugs, smirking to himself. “Just me and Penny tonight, mate.”

“Louis’ daughter?”

Liam forces out a tentative grin and Zayn lifts his eyebrows, rocks back on his heels.

“S’what Harry said,” Zayn adds, stepping into the small space dividing them, hesitantly pressing a finger to a soft bruise over Liam’s birthmark.

Liam swats his hand away, flushing an embarrassing carnation when Zayn giggles.

(Part of him wants to punch Zayn; the other half thinks of wrinkling Zayn’s collar with his fists and dragging him into the gap between them just to kiss him.)

He sighs and tilts his head back against the door. Zayn inches closer. Liam doesn’t bother flinching when Zayn tickles a few fingers over his collarbone this time, just to feel all of the artwork his mouth left behind.

“Like I said,” Liam huffs, turning his face away, “Just me and Penny tonight.”

Zayn pouts, thumbing under Liam’s jaw before dropping his hand away.

“C’mon, it’ll be cool, yeah,” Zayn offers, stepping away.

(Liam pretends the jolt in his heart is from anything but the loss of Zayn’s touch.)

“No, it won’t – “

“I’ve three sisters, y’know,” Zayn hums, easing around the longue, dragging his fingertips over a messy pile of comic books. “Practically raised ‘em myself. ‘m great with kids.”

Liam drags in a narrow breath and the _‘no’_ he can’t seem to fix to his tongue twists awkwardly in his throat until he swallows.

He doesn’t even bother.

His lips quirk a little at the sound of Penny’s voice, high and girly and Zayn pauses mid-step, spinning on his heels.

“Is that – “

“Coldplay,” Liam laughs, shoving off the door. “Her father is a bit manic over them. Wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t hire Chris Martin to come sing at the wedding.”

Zayn arches an eyebrow high, meeting Liam somewhere between the sofa and the coffee table.

“To serenade Harry?” he asks, biting down on a corner of his mouth.

Liam mimics him and – _oh_.

 _Harry_.

He looks away, looks down to where their hands gravitate towards each other like there’s static clinging in the gap. A pulse and an instinct that leaves tiny little goosebumps up Liam’s forearm when they almost touch.

(and all he can hear is Penny’s soft, mumbled _‘nobody said it was easy’_ from all the way down the hall)

Liam drags his hand away at the sound of heavy, wet feet thumping over the hardwoods and he peeks over his shoulder to watch Penny stumble up with a fuzzy pink towel cuddled around her with a small orange one wrapped messily around her head, curly tendrils of wet hair spinning around her face from beneath the soft material.

“Finished!” she cheers, trying to hold her towel in place.

Liam snorts and, under all of the white noise in his head, he can hear Zayn giggle next to him.

He leans in, fixing the towel around her head, smiling gently. “Smashing, love. All scrubbed up?”

“Clean!” she beams, her rosy cheeks scrunching up her eyes.

Liam feels a rush of laughter swirl in his chest and he has just enough time to recognize Zayn in his vision before he’s leaning over Liam, hooking his chin over Liam’s shoulder, warm hands on Liam’s hips –

(It’s a grey memory in his mind, bleeding colors, finger-shaped bruises a reminder and Liam feels the heat under Zayn’s hands spread all over him.)

“’lo princess,” Zayn smirks.

Penny tilts her head to the side, beaming a toothless grin up at him.

“I’m Penny,” she giggles, doing a clumsy curtsey with her towel like a flowing gown.

Liam feels Zayn’s laughter all around him and it’s – _warm_.

(It tickles like the sun at the start of spring and Liam loves every little bit of spring.)

He turns his head just enough that Zayn’s nose nuzzles his cheek and something sweet spreads down Liam’s throat, burning off all of the annoyed words he’s considered barking at Zayn.

“Um, Zayn,” Zayn grins, scrunching his eyebrows.

“You a, um, friend of Clark Kent?” she asks, swallowing around her words.

A soft laugh brushes the shell of Liam’s ear and he turns pink immediately. He wants to duck and hide but Zayn’s leaning up against his spine and his fingers squeeze happily at Liam’s waist and Liam’s just a little bit in love with –

 _No, wait_ , he’s not.

He _can’t_.

“You could say that,” Zayn replies, the quiet burn of his stubble along Liam’s scratching away the _‘no, he’s not’_ he keeps abandoning in his throat.

“My papa says ‘m a ‘donna,” she smiles, swaying on her feet.

Liam snorts, tightening her towel and fixing a small knot into it. “ _Prima donna_ , babe.”

Penny makes a curious face scrunching a line between her eyebrows, puckering her lips thoughtfully. She shrugs lazily, humming. “That too!”

Zayn’s chuckle slips behind Liam’s ear this time and he nudges off of Liam, dragging a purposeful hand across Liam’s bum (he doesn’t jump but he twitches and trembles in the wake) before kneeling down next to her.

“Well, princess,” Zayn grins, reaching up to cup a small hand in his own, “lemme tell you all about a pretty cool ballerina I know about.”

Penny’s eyes turn to stars, wide and dreamy, and Zayn stands up with her hand still swallowed by his.

“Her name is Natasha and she’s pretty _sick_. Proper cool,” Zayn says with a smile stretching his pink lips. “They also call her Black Widow and she’s a real hero.”

“I wanna be a hero like Clark Kent,” Penny announces and they walk slowly around the sofa, rounding a corner.

Zayn blinks over his shoulder, flashing Liam a proud smile that freckles blush all down Liam’s chest.

“Yeah? He’s pretty sick too,” Zayn says, cocking his head while Penny walks next to him, bopping her head, humming another tune. “We can chat all about it and you c’n hop into your pajamas ‘cause all cool princesses need their beauty sleep.”

They’re down the hall and in the bedroom before Liam can huff out a word. Instead, he leans against a wall and lowers his chin, fluttering his eyelashes and trying to bite away this hopeless smile pulling at his cheeks.

 

+++

 

The city outside is a soft breath, a quiet hush composed of calm winds and slow-moving cars and Liam is trying to choose between Chinese takeaway and saucy pizza from his favorite tiny Italian café down the street when he hears it.

It starts with a giggle. A muffled snicker. A thump against the wall and then some familiar down beat that turns into a piano and then loud singing.

Out of key, mumbled words, laughing-singing.

His lips quirk upwards and he abandons takeaway menus in the kitchenette to tip toe down the hallway, shuffling all the way to the archway of his bedroom –

It’s ridiculous.

Liam watches with wide eyes, his tongue brushing over his round smile, his shoulder shoved against the doorway while Zayn and Penny jump wildly on his bed, Loki barking happily from the floor, the room their own concert arena and Elton John on the stereo.

Penny flops around, uncoordinated, in pink polka dot pajamas while Zayn wails along wearing a pair of cheap dayglo sunglasses Liam’s certain he nicked from Harry’s luggage. The bed squeaks under their heavy feet and the headboard knocks against the feature wall and Liam –

He snorts. He tips over, hands on his knees, giggling while they muck up all of the words for the fuck sake of a laugh.

“You’re _mad_ , man,” Liam shouts at Zayn, over the music, with his cheeks crinkling up his eyes.

Zayn shrugs, leaping higher, nearly knocking his head into the ceiling.

Penny does her best to keep up, losing balance, springing all over the mattress with red cheeks and glassy eyes.

All Liam can hear, under the rioting laughter echoing like fireworks and Loki’s delighted yelping, is Zayn’s pitchy falsetto of _‘you know I read it in a magazine, oh, Pe-Pe-Penny and the Jets’_ as he lifts Penny up and spins her around in his arms.

“Clark Kent!”

Liam leans for a second more, cheeks aching, glitter embedded in his eyes, a lopsided smile. He stares at Zayn as he falls back on the bed, kicking his feet with Loki and Penny piled on top of him.

He blinks at the tears like dew at the corner of Zayn’s eyes and his heart –

(There’s no name for _this_ and he’s certain there’s no slowing the stutter of his heart so – )

“C’mon, babe,” Zayn grins, wriggling a few fingers at Liam, “ _c’mere_.”

Liam doesn’t hesitate (even if his mind is racing and his heart keeps fluttering out of time with a _‘no, no, this isn’t_ your _moment’_ ) before running in and leaping onto the bed with a breathy laugh, a _‘but they’re so spaced out, Pe-Pe-Penny and the Jets’_ on his lips.

Zayn cradles a hand behind his head and he knocks their foreheads together with Penny giggling between them.

(It’s a _moment_ and he tucks it between his ribs until he can sort out what it means.)

 

+++

 

They order pizza with all of Zayn’s favorite toppings and fill frosted mugs with root beer and scoops of vanilla ice cream, shoving on the sofa in a tangled mess of limbs.

Penny fits under one of Liam’s arms, her head against his ribs, her feet in Zayn’s lap and Zayn crosses his ankles over Liam’s on the coffee table with Loki shoved into his other side. Liam’s greasy fingers catch in Penny’s hair between bites. Penny drags Zayn’s arms over her knees, examining all of the artwork when he shoves up his sleeves and Liam bites along his lip to keep himself from touching.

(To keep himself from dragging a thumb over the mehndi design and leaving behind this artificial luster he can admire later on.)

They leave the lights off in the flat, this wavy blue glow from the telly lighting up their eyes.

“No taking the piss at my film choices,” Zayn warns with a wry smile.

Liam throws his hands up innocently, slouching down.

“Wouldn’t think of it, mate.”

Zayn flashes him a jagged little smile with scrunched eyes before he leans back, nicking the last slice covered in veggies.

Liam snorts, buries it into a throw pillow. “ _The Incredibles_?”

“Hey,” Zayn whines, pointing the remote at Liam with a mock scowl. “I almost tossed on _Finding Nemo_ , you twat. ‘Sides, you didn’t have _Aladdin_.”

Liam shakes with another laugh and Penny yawns loudly next to him.

Zayn leans down with a wrinkled nose, half a laugh on his lips. “Hey,” he whispers to Penny, loud enough for Liam to hear, “doesn’t Clark Kent remind you of Princess Jasmine?”

Liam tuts at him, smacking Zayn with the throw pillow and Penny giggles into her hand, blinking wide eyes up at Liam.

“Sorta,” she drags out, lifting her small shoulders into a jerky shrug.

Liam rolls his eyes, chewing on his thumbnail when Zayn lifts his head just enough for Liam to pick out all of the earthy hues in his eyes.

(And he doesn’t, _he swears_ , but maybe he spends a few seconds trying to identify the differences between bronze and sepia in the dark.)

“I can show you a whole new world princess,” Zayn teases.

Liam bites a little too roughly at his lower lip, squinting at Zayn, watching the slow drag of his tongue over candy pink lips.

His next breath is a hiccup and he turns to stare straight at the telly rather than the length of Zayn’s unfairly beautiful eyelashes.

“Wanna be, um, like Violet when I grow up,” Penny says between scenes, cuddling up to Liam, still lazily tracing all of Zayn’s ink. “She’s so cool.”

Liam tilts his head, thumbing fringe off Penny’s head, grinning down at her.

“She is pretty sick, princess,” he whispers and he can feel Zayn’s stare on him in the hollowed out shadows.

He doesn’t bother blinking up, not when Zayn’s spare hand brushes down over the shell of his ear.

“What would your codename be, babe?” Zayn asks, his voice low.

Penny cocks her head to look up at him with a confused curve to her mouth.

Zayn snorts, tapping the end of her nose until she giggles. “Every cool superhero has a wicked codename, babe,” he explains, slinking down into the cushions, dragging his foot along Liam’s arch on the coffee table. He jerks his chin towards Liam, still smirking. “You’ve got to have a sick superhero name like Clark Kent.”

In the dark, Liam’s cheeks heat up and there’s a hint of something fond in Zayn’s eyes that he’s trying to translate when –

“I dunno,” Penny shrugs, pouting.

“How about Princess?” Liam suggests, nudging his chin to her temple. “S’what you are, right? A pretty cool, wicked princess.”

Penny tests the word over her tongue repeatedly before beaming up at him. “Princess! ‘s me!”

Liam buries most of his laugh in her hair and Zayn’s fingers (warm, familiar, _reckless_ ) ease down Liam’s jaw.

“Alright, well, you didn’t muck that up much,” Zayn taunts, pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth when Liam flicks his nose.

“What about you?” he hisses, lips cocking into a dumb grin when Zayn wiggles his eyebrows.

“S’ppose Captain Zap sounds proper cool,” Zayn shrugs with his lip between his teeth.

He traces his index finger along the ink on his forearm, over the splatter of black and the yellow lettering.

“Boring,” Liam huffs and he stamps down the senseless laugh burning in his chest when Zayn knocks him with a throw pillow this time.

He steals Zayn’s leftover crust, grinning around it like a cartoon character while Penny yawns softly, snuggling to Liam’s side, sleepily repeating _‘Princess Penny ‘s my name’_ into the hollow spaces under Liam’s arm.

 

+++

 

“Do you ever want some of your own?”

It comes in a hush, a quietly rolling voice like the waves under a high moon. They’re pressed together, hip to hip, on the sofa with Penny stretched out across their laps and Loki kipping under the coffee table. The room is still dark and blue from the fuzz of the telly and Liam’s been listening to Zayn softly reciting every scene in the film with a stupid smile flushed over his mouth.

Liam blinks down at Penny and the way she’s so much like Louis – all sharp features and unsuspecting, even when she’s asleep.

“Yeah,” he replies, tipping his head back to look up at the ceiling. He smiles while curling fingers into her hair. “Loads, mate. Maybe one or two to start, I reckon.”

Zayn hums next to him, stroking smooth circles along Penny’s spine.

“I’ve got a huge family so,” Zayn whispers and that hot line where their shoulders touch glows comfortably warm. “So I think, like, I’d definitely want that. I think it’d be massively cool.”

“Cool,” Liam repeats, smiling at nothing.

Zayn knocks their knees together and the static of the television drifts through his mind like an orchestra of calm waters.

“You wrote about a wedding this one time,” Liam pauses until he can shake the mortification from his voice and Zayn sketches encouraging fingers up the back of his wrist until he adds, “It was about this couple from Manchester. The bride, like – it was so beautiful. She was a widow and the groom let her son be the best man at the wedding.”

A thumb drags over the veins on the back of his hand, like tracing a path of roots under the dirt.

“It was crazy how amazing you made that day seem for that little lad,” he whispers with this taffy smile spun over his lips. “I know that feeling, man. It was just – I dunno. I sound daft. Like a right idiot.”

“Sort of,” Zayn teases under his breath.

Liam huffs out a breath, easing his hand from under Zayn’s touch.

“It was a huge thing, okay?” Liam scowls, staring blankly at the television. He synchronizes his breathing with Penny’s before whispering, “And you made me fall in love with every moment of it.”

Their silence afterwards cocoons around them like a cold blanket and that’s the way it feels – cold, unwelcome.

Liam’s biting at his lip and Zayn’s returned to petting Penny’s back in these soothing strokes when he clears his throat, tilting his head towards Liam with this playful smile.

( _No, wait_ – this genuine smile.)

“Alright, I’ve a bit of a confession,” he says, his voice smoked out, his eyes like foreign gems, “I loved that wedding. Like full-on. It was – um, it was a bit of a moment for me. Happy?”

The twitch at the corner of Liam’s mouth sets a shiver through his lips and he inclines just a little.

Just until their noses brush and this rapid pulse in his heart feels warranted.

“Maybe.”

“Maybe,” Zayn repeats, dragging his eyes over Liam’s mouth.

“You’re not taking the piss?”

“Nope.”

“So you really – “

“Yes, Liam,” Zayn grins after a rumbling groan, “I really did, you twat. The fucking kid was priceless.”

Liam chuckles under his breath, catches the height of it in his throat and he fucking swallows it down. There’s words scribbled over his tongue he knows he’ll never use. Not when Zayn is this close, with flickering eyelashes and their noses skimming in this delicately unaware way that –

Liam sighs into the kiss. There’s a buzz loud in the back of his mind and Zayn’s fingers tickle just under his chin before they catch on Liam’s stubble and keep him in place.

It feels so deliberately unpracticed, like it’s still too new for them to commit to. They’re too nervous and their eyes keep fluttering open like this is a dare.

They keep waiting for the other to pull away.

There’s sugar on the edge of their lips and Zayn’s shy with his tongue, barely brushing. Liam’s anxious, clutching around a moan at the back of his mouth and his jaw flexes, twitches when he parts his lips. He coaxes Zayn’s tongue in.

Liam brushes a hand to the nape of Zayn’s neck, fingers spreading over shaved bits and he swears Zayn’s skin is on fire.

(Or his heart is but his brain can’t wrap around that thought so he slips further in.)

Zayn’s mouth shifts into a small smile between kisses, their touches a little less insistent in the dark with Penny still snoring across their laps.

“Should we stop?” he asks, sounding a little more breathless and Liam –

(He doesn’t imagine how _wrecked_ Zayn’s voice would probably sound if they were sprawled across his bed with a bottle of lube and twitching hips.)

Liam slides another kiss over Zayn’s lips before shoving their foreheads together.

They bite at their lips in unison, staring at batting eyelashes and swollen mouths for a long moment. They’re sharing rough breaths (and Liam wonders if Zayn can hear the treble of his heart from here) before Liam gives him a small nod.

“Cause, like,” Liam motions to Penny like it’s enough of an explanation.

Zayn swallows audibly before nudging his nose against Liam’s.

“Yeah, ‘cause,” he huffs, twisting his lips into a pucker.

Liam laughs silently, pressing forward for a quick peck before drawing off completely.

(he feels _insatiable_ and like a fucking teenager with out of control hormones)

He slouches down into the squashy cushions but they stay pressed close. Zayn tips his head onto Liam’s shoulder and Liam scratches thick fingers into Zayn’s hair, dragging over his scalp, sighing into his next breath.

The city stumbles into a hollow hum and the room is still a pale blue when Liam falls asleep like this –

With a princess splayed over his lap and a ( _far from a fairy tale prince_ ) snoring on his shoulder and a tiny smile stitched over his lips.

 

+++

 

“ _So_ ,” Harry smirks in the mirror, arms outstretched while the attendant adjusts his measurements, “you looked quite cozy the other morning when I got in.”

He puffs a breath to knock the thick curls out of his eyes when Liam shoots him a glare in the reflection from a huge armchair.

“It’s nothing,” Liam replies in a flat voice, flipping through another wedding magazine, stretching his neck to watch Penny spin around in her dress in another mirror.

Harry hums teasingly, toying with his tie in the reflection.

“Didn’t look that way.”

Liam bites down on a whine and ignores the loud cackle Harry lets out when he spots the pale blush along Liam’s cheeks.

(It really is nothing, he thinks. Even if Harry stumbled in just after six in the morning to Penny snoring on their laps and Zayn breathing evenly with his head on Liam’s chest and Liam’s mouth buried in Zayn’s hair.

Or the shy, embarrassed smiles they exchanged in the doorway, sleepy-eyed and flushed, lingering a little too long like _‘goodbye’_ is the last word their lips wanted to utter.

Because he hasn’t bothered to call or text Zayn once since then.)

“It’s bloody fantastic, I think,” Harry insists, brushing a hand down his jacket, playing with the lapels, “I mean, it’s about fucking time. My bro finally fancying a bloke. Get in.”

Liam groans into his shoulder, looking away.

“It’s not like that,” he repeats, low and almost believable.

“It looked _like that_ the other morning,” Harry grins.

“When you were s’ppose to be sat with Penny?” Liam asks, trying to subdue the hiss in his voice.

Harry shrugs with an uneven tilt to his lips. “She was fine with you. She loves you.”

“But you’re going to be her father in under a week,” Liam reminds him, crossing his arms.

There’s an unconscious lift to Harry’s eyebrows – careless. Unconcerned, Liam thinks, narrowing his eyes at Harry’s back.

Harry peeks around another attendant to Penny, puckering his lips into a subtle pout as she hums to herself, dancing in the mirror.

“She was fine with you,” he says quietly, furrowing his eyebrows.

Liam shakes his head and the hot pulse in his blood keeps ringing in his ears but he ignores it.

“We’ve the rehearsal dinner – “

“Party,” Harry corrects. “It’s gonna be a _party_ for our families.”

Liam rolls his eyes, tugging out his notebook, tracing a finger down a scribbled out checklist. “The rehearsal _party_ in two nights,” he groans and Harry smirks in his peripheral with noticeable dimples, “and then what time d’you want to go to the pitch on Saturday for Lou’s charity game?”

Harry exhales a petulant sigh, pouting. “I didn’t – I _can’t_. My mates from LA want to throw me a last minute stag do. Nothing huge. Just gonna drive up to Liverpool, do a pub crawl.”

There’s this strained tension captured in Liam’s shoulders the moment he sits up. He glares at Harry with wide eyes, a crooked set to his eyebrows.

“ _You_ ,” Liam grunts, shaking his head. “This event is massive for him. There’s even a dinner after. How can you not be there?”

Harry averts his eyes and Liam can almost see it in his expression – the uncertainty.

“What is it?” Liam asks, leaning forward.

Harry sniffs, shrugging, keeping his eyes low like when they were children and Harry was seconds from admitting something awful.

“Look, it’s nothing, alright? I’m just nervous,” Harry whispers, fiddling with his cufflinks. “Or scared as shit. I dunno, Liam. Sometimes I think I don’t want to?”

“You don’t want to,” Liam repeats, narrowing his eyes.

Harry shrugs again, a jerky lift to his shoulders, teeth nicking at his bottom lip.

“He’s honestly in love with me. All the way,” he sighs, scrubbing the heels of his hands over his eyes. “I’ve never had that, not even with Nick. It’s a bit mental. And maybe that’ll never happen again but – “

“Harry,” Liam says through his teeth, warningly.

Harry tips his head back for a heavy exhale. “Fuck off, man. I don’t need you being cross with me. It’s just been on my mind a few times. Someone is madly in love with me and I’m just thinking about it, ‘s all.”

Something sick slips into his bloodstream. It wraps tight vines around his arteries and Liam balls his hands into fists in his lap. He’s somewhere on the edge when he finds the strength to move his tongue.

“That’s not right,” he bites off. “You don’t get to _think about it_ , Haz. That was before. Three weeks before.”

“Liam,” Harry whines and Liam growls out a breath immediately.

“Louis is a great lad. Brilliant. Amazing,” he hisses and Harry’s turning on his heels to face him, to watch the crimson spread over Liam’s cheeks. “And Penny is bloody incredible. So, no, you don’t get to think about it. Who gives a shit if you’re bricking it – this is their lives too.”

Harry’s upper lip curls and he drags out a breath like a dissatisfied child.

“Well,” he stammers with a wrinkled nose, “You’re being a dick because you’re jealous. Once again, you’re stuck being second place. Poor Leeymo – never getting his way. You’re always like this.”

Liam bites harshly along his lower lip and shoves out of the chair. He stomps over to Harry with clenched hands and his heart stuttering behind his ribs.

“If you don’t tell him, I will,” he mumbles and Harry flinches with wide eyes.

“I’ll tell him and I won’t let you muck up that pretty little girl’s life.”

He’s shrugging away from Harry, shoving through the boutique’s glass doors before Harry can breathe out a quiet plea.

(And his first breath of warm London air afterwards feels like the first honest _‘no’_ he’s ever shouted without an inch of guilt behind it.)

 

+++

 

The rooftop of some garden restaurant deep in the center of London is edged in pale gold fairy lights. They’re strung from strong tree branches edging the roof with a dark purple sky hanging above. There’s tables of champagne and slow swaying music from a small orchestra and, at the heart of a tiny crowd, Louis shoving his smile under Harry’s jaw as they circle around lazily to an old Beatles tune.

It’s a few hours past twilight with a thick honey-scent to the night and Liam thinks the atmosphere is a warm daydream meant for the right kind of moment.

(Torn right out of the pages of his notebook – but for someone else.)

“Fuck,” Niall snorts, nudging next to him, sipping something clear from a chilled glass, “Did Tommo hire Michael Bublé to serenade them too?”

Liam sniffs at the smoky scent of burning tea candles along the dinner tables and blinks at the rose icing lining the tiers of cake on display and –

“He wasn’t available,” he mumbles under his breath, stealing his eyes back to Harry and Louis.

They’re nothing but foreheads shoved together, smiling into each other’s eyes, flashes from phones catching like lightning off their half-suits and crinkled expressions.

Liam bites at his lip and looks down. “Think Lou is saving the big performances for the wedding day.”

Niall chokes out a laugh, taking another hit off his drink. “Feckin’ showoff.”

A small, unintended smile slips over Liam’s lips

(because Niall is, by far, his favorite person in this entire world and Niall doesn’t ask about that hint of a frown at the corners of Liam’s mouth or why he’s been sat in a corner most of the night, letting the world watch Harry and Louis instead)

and he nudges Niall with a soft elbow under his ribs.

“Where’s Josh?” he asks, lifting his eyes and absently watching Louis’ tan hand smooth over the small of Harry’s back, wrinkling his shirt with the gentle pressure of his palm.

Niall shrugs haphazardly. “Dunno. Probably off mucking about. There’s some Aussie drummer bloke ‘round here he keeps chatting up about playing a few gigs. A bass player too.”

Liam nods along and his eyes stay on Louis’ knuckles, his thumb affectionately tracing up each knob of Harry’s spine.

“I’m shaggin’ a musician,” Niall whispers, grinning. “D’you know how fuckin’ incredible the sex is? It’s bloody fantastic.”

Liam groans softly, knocking their shoulders.

“Shut it,” he snickers and Niall rocks back on his heels with a laugh.

“You good?” Niall asks (because he _can_ and because, even if he won’t admit it, Liam needs him to) when the noise of their laughter catches on the draft.

Liam sinks in a deep breath, nodding. It’s a lie and Niall knows it but he doesn’t say a word.

(It’s probably the fourth thing Liam loves best about him.)

He nicks Niall’s glass, downing the rest of the drink, letting the burn scratch down his throat while Niall mumbles, in the background, _‘that’s not water, um, wow okay don’t ya have just one kidney mate you’re gonna die’_ while something bites like tears at Liam’s eyes.

Liam exhales roughly, thumping his chest with a loose fist.

“Yeah, I figured as much,” he gasps, rolling his shoulders. “Needed that.”

Niall raises his eyebrows with wide blue eyes. “Alright. Wanna smoke a bowl next?”

Liam passes Niall back the glass and shakes his head, still trying to swallow around the burn.

“Nope. Just need a chat with me brother.”

“Step-brother,” Niall hums but Liam’s already shifting around the crowd, nudging by a dozen familiar faces with a polite smile and half-arse waves until he’s a few yards from Harry and Louis.

He tries to clear the alcohol out of his throat and Louis looks up with soft wrinkles around his eyes, a chapped pink mouth and –

 _Wow_.

Under gold lights and flickering candles and a clear dark sky, his eyes are happy slits of ocean floor blue and Liam falls a little more in –

 _No, wait_.

Harry shifts a little awkwardly in Louis’ arms, blinking owlishly at Liam, softening the set of his jaw.

“Li,” he whispers like he’s _pleading_ and Liam shoots them a wide smile.

“Just wanted to see how the happy couple is?” he grits out, trading glances between Harry and Louis.

Harry flinches but Louis eases a hand across the nape of his neck, into his curls, laughing.

“Tonight’s lovely, Li, thank you for putting it together,” Louis sighs, stretching out his smile. “S’not too much for a rehearsal dinner, yeah?”

Liam feels something sharp overlap his heart and he thinks about looking into those eyes for a lifetime –

( _Fucking hell_.)

“Nope,” he drags out, curling his tongue around every letter, shaking his head to cover the wobble in his throat. “If I’m, being honest, it’s not enough. Not for you.”

Louis lifts a kind eyebrow and Liam ducks his head, licking at his lips, forcing out a quick _‘you two I mean’_ with a stiff laugh.

“Thank you,” Louis smiles, nudging his forehead into Harry’s jaw.

Liam nods quickly, shifting his glance over to Harry.

He’s still wary, pale, sucking in his lower lip while Liam flashes him an artificial smirk.

“Nothing to say Haz?”

Harry swallows and lowers his brow. “Not – “

“You sure?” Liam interjects.

Harry sighs, stealing his eyes away from Liam. He drags a foot over the rooftop and Louis stares blankly at them for a moment.

“Later,” Harry murmurs, tightening an arm around Louis. “Having a chat later, alright?”

(There’s a piano in the distance and a lovely song Liam remembers his dad humming to his mum in their living room and that damaged look in Harry’s eyes is enough.)

(And that guilt in his blood is absorbed by the alcohol as he offers them a polite, trembling smile and shifts back into the crowd, away from them.)

The bar is nearly empty when he stumbles up, sighing out a breath, letting the edge of the wood dig into the middle of his spine. There’s something sick in his blood and he hides half of his frown behind his hand when he spots Niall dancing happily with Josh and all of the other couples joining Louis and Harry with toasts and fond kisses.

He feels disarmed and a bit desperate just to catch a taxi home but –

“You look like you could use a drink.”

Liam doesn’t know the word (it’s the opposite of _love_ and a little less heavy on his tongue) to describe the flicker-stutter of his heart when, out the corner of his eye, Zayn comes into perspective.

Instead of thinking, he tries to lift his mouth into a smile but fails.

He stares and blinks and watches Louis brushing a smile into a kiss over Harry’s lips.

“It took me a little bit to get it,” Zayn whispers, nudging in, their hips connecting, “and I feel sort of daft for not noticing, mate, honestly but – you were in love with him.”

(Liam swallows the _‘were in love’_ and tries to make the past-tense of it all, the loss feel accurate under his skin.)

(It doesn’t fit.)

He doesn’t respond but he wrinkles his nose and the back of Zayn’s hand dances over the nape of his neck. It’s not sympathetic like all of Niall’s looks are.

The touch is apologetic like Zayn wants to _fix something_ and Liam didn’t know he was broke until –

“He’s my kid brother,” he says, low, not even bothering to hide the disappointment clutching his throat. “He’s not supposed to fall in love before me. He’s not supposed to get married before me. He’s always been a bit selfish and – shit. He doesn’t even know what real love is.”

(There’s a thumb rubbing cloyingly delightful shapes at the top of Liam’s spine and he settles against it. He shudders until the pressure increases.)

“I know I’m wrong but – “

“Hey,” Zayn says, slanted little smirk, white teeth flashing with a tongue pressed to them. “I don’t mind, man. What’s a good love story without a bit of tragedy? Boring, innit?”

Liam doesn’t know why (maybe it’s the smoke in his lungs and the heavy night and the push-pull between all of his joints) but his lips twitch into an easy smile and that pressure at the back of his neck feels like the only thing keeping him in orbit.

“Wanna make them jealous?” Zayn offers.

Liam finally turns halfway, twisting his lips, laughing under his breath.

“How?”

Zayn shrugs like he’s too cool, too nonchalant about life but his other hand sneaks down to grab Liam’s and they’re halfway to the center of the rooftop before Liam can argue otherwise.

They’re horribly clumsy, swaying lazily, stepping on each other’s feet like idiots to the quiet orchestra playing behind them.

Zayn snorts into Liam’s shoulder but anchors a strong hand to the dip in Liam’s spine and Liam twists his arms around Zayn’s neck for balance as they dance. As they find their own horribly coordinated rhythm with dopey smiles, with something gentle in the background.

Liam blinks away from the raw shine of Zayn’s smile, ducking to nose at his shoulder while Niall lifts his brow somewhere nearby. He chuckles a breath into the crook of Zayn’s neck and listens to Zayn’s soft humming, shuts his eyes at _‘the stars shining bright above you the night breezes seem to whisper I love you’_ that Zayn sings into the shell of his ear.

They stumble a little more while Zayn’s fingers tighten around the bone in Liam’s hip.

“You can’t dance?” Liam asks, pulling back.

Zayn looks shy, inadvertently helpless in a checkered shirt with a loose collar, a skinny tie, product-stiff hair going soft and into his eyes.

“Nope.”

Liam furrows his brow, even as they struggle to twist around other couples.

“Then why – “

Zayn’s mouth quirks, lips brushing out _‘while I’m alone and blue as can be, dream a little dream of me’_ while Liam bites his lower lip raw.

“To make you smile,” Zayn whispers into the small gap between them.

Liam blinks hard at him and Zayn shifts his grin into something embarrassingly honest and Liam –

(He doesn’t think _‘love’_ but something closely attached to it.)

They stay close, under a clear and dark sky and fairy lights and a _moment_ , Liam thinks.

A moment that’s all his own, in Zayn’s arms, with a hushed _‘I’m longing to linger ‘til dawn dear just saying this – ‘_ in the air.

 

+++

 

Zayn’s loft is airy, half-empty with messy stacks of literature books and floor to ceiling windows outlined by industrial iron frames and a wall splattered with graffiti and a soft bed low to the hardwood floor.

It’s a sloppy kitchen with grey marble countertops, boxes of comic books in a corner, unfinished artwork and acrylic paints opposite of them. The kind of place Liam would explore for hours with curious eyes except –

He’s sinking into the bed, the wrinkly black sheets, the avalanche of soft pillows Zayn knocks away, the way Zayn stretches out all around and above him.

Their kisses taste a little less like champagne and more like sugar – the airy kind that melts at the first brush of tongue. Fumbling hands leave their shirts by the door, strip their belts before they crash into the bed, tug at zips and work at buttons. Their breathless laughs fill in the gaps between kisses and Liam sniffs along Zayn’s neck while shamelessly grinding up against Zayn’s crotch.

He bites into that soft juncture between neck and shoulder, all over Zayn’s tendons while Zayn squirms for the lube that’s too far away.

Liam brushes a laugh against the bruise and blindly wraps tight fingers around Zayn’s wrist to drag him back. To drag him _down_ , smearing kisses over Zayn’s plush lips and hitching his hips until Zayn can feel the shape of his cock behind his pants.

“Forgot how wet you get,” Zayn sighs, content and beautiful with his whine when Liam shoves a hand between them to drag his palm over the outline of Zayn’s dick.

“Forgot how loud I want you to be,” Liam whispers in the gap, their noses brushing.

Zayn smirks and rolls his hips to grind against Liam’s knuckles.

“Show me,” Zayn dares.

Liam licks his lips (Zayn’s too) before bucking just enough to jostle Zayn’s smaller frame.

He drags his teeth over all the ink along Zayn’s collarbones while Zayn clumsily kicks out of his trousers, splits Liam’s further open, yanking at the waistband of his pants.

They struggle out of their clothes and Liam doesn’t know where he loses his socks or how Zayn keeps his on but he focuses on the silent poetry Zayn’s lips draw down his neck.

On the way Zayn sucks anxiously at his birthmark like he’s trying to recreate a previous mark.

(One that Liam thinks about showing off this time with low collars and a stretched, bare neck because _Zayn_ – )

“Fuck.”

He thinks it’s his voice but it almost drags like Zayn’s accent in the back of his mind. He knocks their naked hips together for a little more friction while Zayn pins his wrists close to the headboard, grinning down at Liam.

“Can’t help y’self?”

A breathy laugh strangles itself around a moan in Liam’s throat before he flexes his hips again.

Zayn’s thighs tense around Liam’s waist when he brushes back until their cocks rub at that sweet angle –

“Shit, Zayn.”

The gasp of a laugh is a little more infrequent in pitch this time, rolling over Zayn’s lips before he bites down on his lower one, sucking it in, furrowing his brow in concentration.

“C’mon, like,” Liam grunts, fighting against the tight hold Zayn has on his wrists. “Gonna fucking come off this and ‘s not what I want.”

Zayn leans in close, brushing an absent kiss over Liam’s mouth.

“What do you want?”

Liam swallows, stretching his neck, getting the last drag of a kiss before Zayn pulls back.

“Wanna fuck you. Want you to ride me so hard that you – “

Zayn yelps and sinks a whine into his chest when their cocks get slick and sticky from Liam’s precome. The head of Zayn’s dick catches in Liam’s foreskin and he swears ( _fucking bullshit_ ) that he could come off of just that.

Just sliding his foreskin over the tip of Zayn’s dick like a seal (a sticky kiss) and riding off the way all of his precome smears the dark head of Zayn’s cock shiny.

“Stop, stop,” Zayn pleads, achy breaths, shifting up and away from Liam’s dick except –

It pops from beneath them, curved and throbbing, slides into the gap between Zayn’s cheeks and rides along his rim.

“Oh fuck, you arsehole,” Liam whines just before Zayn arches his spine.

Before Liam’s cock spits out another drop of precome that drips down Zayn’s crack, over his hole, down the back of his thigh. It dribbles off and rivers down the underside of Liam’s cock.

Liam rolls his eyes back, sweaty and struggling for proper breaths while Zayn slows their rocking.

“Can’t without the lube,” Zayn mutters, tugging his hands from Liam’s wrists.

(Out a corner of his vision, he can already see the red marks. The bruises around his wrists, darkening the tattoos, new imprints that Liam thinks he’ll grin at this time.)

(He’ll ink them there for a memory – a moment.)

The tide of after midnight clouds break and the moon, a shiny strip of silver beam, strikes down through the windows over the bed.

It stripes Zayn’s skin metallic for a second. Liam loves the way hair falls over into Zayn’s eyes while he chews on his bottom lip, staring down at Liam.

“Is this – “

Liam shakes his head, shaking off the sting around his wrists to reach out and pinch his fingers around Zayn’s waist.

“Up, up,” he insists, shoving at the ( _it’s not love_ ) in his head.

Zayn quirks up a confused eyebrow and Liam rolls his eyes with a laugh before jerking Zayn by the waist, tossing all of his strength into his forearms and biceps to haul Zayn up.

It’s awkward and they struggle until Zayn’s knees cage in Liam’s shoulders and his dripping cock sits fat, twitching near Liam’s lips.

This angle feels shockingly new, a little difficult as Liam cranes his neck and stretches his tongue to lap at Zayn’s cock. It flickers over the slit, sour-sweet precome at the back of his throat and Zayn groans defenselessly above him.

His hips twitch just slightly, shoving the head between Liam’s lips and Liam is so grateful when Zayn stuffs a couple of pillows behind his head to make it a little easier.

“So good,” Zayn croons, rocking his hips.

Liam moans, fluttering his eyes shut to stop the gag, loosening his jaw around the thickness.

Saliva slips down his chin and he slurps around the tip, twists his neck to take Zayn deeper.

“Shit, babe,” Zayn hisses and maybe it’s from the raw edge of Liam’s teeth or from the way Liam hums halfway down but Liam can’t focus.

He can’t think.

Instead, he breathes through his nose and sniffs at Zayn’s heady scent (damp cologne and boyish musk and the flavor of sweet cigarettes) before swallowing him deeper.

“So good at this,” Zayn huffs, twisting a few fingers into Liam’s hair.

Liam shoves into the touch and lets Zayn hold his head in place to rabbit his cock in and out for a few beats.

It’s messy, sloppy (and Liam feels out of practice with a sore jaw, with an eager tongue pressing to the underside) but Zayn smiles above him and Liam blinks back tiny tears to hollow his cheeks around Zayn’s dick.

“Slow down,” Zayn laughs but it flutters into a moan when Liam sucks roughly around the head.

“Tastes so,” Liam pants, licking excess precome from his lips, tonguing at the slit, “tastes so fucking _amazing_.”

Zayn snorts, shagging a hand through Liam’s hair, playfully thumbing around a corner of his mouth.

“Don’t need you to – “

“Shut it,” Liam hisses, slipping Zayn’s cock back between his lips.

(And Zayn complies immediately, biting ruthlessly at his lip, choking on a whimper when Liam flutters his throat muscles around the head of Zayn’s cock.)

Liam feels a little like an exhibitionist (a little like a _magician_ ) when he stretches his cheek to fit two fingers into the tight space in his mouth with Zayn’s dick, sucking loudly, spilling precome and saliva around the digits.

(It makes the stretch worth it, the ache under his tongue, the white noise in his ears loud, loud.)

Zayn barely notices, brushing the back of his hand over his forehead to drag off the sweat, rolling his hips to catch more of Liam’s tongue.

Liam stretches a smile around the shaft, easing his fingers out and around to –

“Fucking tosser.”

Zayn gasps, lurches forward (shoving his cock a little too deep) while Liam’s slippery fingers ease around his hole, nudge carefully until his middle finger stretches the rim around it.

Liam sputters when Zayn’s cock drags out of his mouth, glassy eyes staring up at the long line of Zayn’s neck when his head jerks back. He swallows quickly, tries to recover, twists his finger up and curves –

“ _Oh_.”

His second finger eases in before Zayn’s countered and he anxiously shuttles them in and out, stretching Zayn around them, his spare hand wrapping loosely around Zayn’s cock to ease him back in.

Zayn relaxes immediately around his fingers, going loose and edgy, struggling to thrust his cock in while grinding back onto Liam’s fingers. It goes for a few minutes, Liam suckling the head rather than licking the shaft while Zayn gasps unevenly when Liam brushes along his prostate. The moon clipping their bodies in silver and the loft echoing with their increasingly desperate breaths.

Liam’s dick leaking a pool of precome all along his abdomen but he doesn’t bother to stripe a loose hand down it.

He’s too focused on the pitch of Zayn’s voice when he circles his hole with a thumb and teases a third finger around it like he might –

Like he _could_ , making Zayn slightly rougher with his fingers when they drag through Liam’s hair.

“Lemme,” Zayn gasps, pulling out and off all at once and scrambling backwards before Liam can attack him again. He huffs a noise, grinning, looking vulnerable with hooded eyes and shaky hands as he finds the lube.

“Lemme show you,” he whispers with a smoked out voice.

Liam blinks down at him, easing up an eyebrow, shifting his hands behind his head to watch.

Zayn snorts, slicking a hand, pushing up onto his knees and reaching back to –

“Fuck,” he drags out and Liam can’t see it but he knows Zayn’s fingers are twisting in deep, easing the last stretch of muscles, recreating what Liam barely finished.

His cock twitches, bobs between his thighs and Liam stares.

He fixes his eyes on the thick string of precome, the scratchy hair around the base, the way Zayn’s balls pull up tight.

Another hand eases between Liam’s thighs and he pulls his legs apart to stare at Zayn striping his cock with lube. His thumb drags on the foreskin and he twists his fingers just at the tip – _shit_ – until Liam’s breathless and his vision goes white.

There’s a tremble from his thighs to his toes. He can hear the wet squelch of Zayn’s hand around his cock, the fingers fucking messily into Zayn’s hole. He blinks his eyes shut, tipping his head back, and loses himself in the noises.

Sticky, shaky hands crawl up his stomach, over his chest when Zayn shifts up until his knees bracket Liam’s hips. Liam smiles lazily up at him, slipping a hand underneath to grip around his cock, to hold it steady while Zayn eases down, his hole snuffing at the tip before –

“Shit,” they drag out together in a hiss, in a unified breath.

It’s a moment, a second, a vulnerable clench of Zayn’s teeth and Liam’s shaking hand easing all of the tension from Zayn’s spine before he feels Zayn relax around him.

A heartbeat before Zayn smiles down at him and sinks further down Liam’s pulsing cock.

Liam watches the inky smudges of Zayn’s eyelashes flutter over his cheekbones as he cautiously raises up and slips back down onto his cock. It drags a sharp numbness into Liam’s fingertips as he tries to catch Zayn’s hips but Zayn angles closer, splaying his hands over Liam’s sweaty chest to rock crudely on his dick.

There’s a cluster of breaths deep, deep in Liam’s throat and everything comes out in a rush when Zayn gently rides him. He can feel the tremor in Zayn’s thighs and the way Zayn’s prick starts to waken to the stretch of Liam’s dick. It fattens up along Liam’s belly while Zayn groans roughly above him, ducking his head with this embarrassed grin when Liam stares up at him.

“Good?”

“Bloody mental,” Zayn laughs without oxygen, screwing down onto Liam. “Feels so full. So thick, babe.”

Liam echoes his laugh but with a little more fascination and blown wide eyes as Zayn works into a rhythm that Liam can’t keep up with.

He sinks into the sheets and keeps still while breathing out encouraging little moans loud enough for Zayn to grin at.

“That’s it babe. Slower, _slower_ – fuck, you feel incredible. Look at you, so good. So bloody into it.”

Zayn snorts but squeezes himself around Liam on the upward drag just to make Liam wince with pleasure.

“Sound like bad porn, babe,” Zayn huffs.

Liam scrunches his face into crinkled eyes and a wide smile before positioning his feet flat on the bed and finally fucking up when Zayn sinks down. It unsettles the bed. Zayn shifts with a gentle _‘oh’_ that melts into Liam’s chest when he grinds back up and the slick sounds of their skin smacking vibrates over the walls.

His hips snap a little too enthusiastically while Zayn shivers. Fingers grip bruises into Zayn’s soft skin, right around his hips, and Liam finds an anchor with his feet to keep Zayn moving.

“Oh fuck, you’re gonna make me – “

Liam grins stupidly, rolling his hips and slowing enough that Zayn whines for more.

Wet fingers twist into the sheets for a grip and Liam turns his head just enough to mouth along all of the tattoos smeared to the inside of Zayn’s forearm while he thrusts lazily.

“Want you to wait,” he mumbles into Zayn’s skin, dragging his teeth across the microphone.

Zayn pouts for a second but Liam rocks his hips deep enough to unfasten a yelp from Zayn’s mouth when he hits his prostate.

“Wanna make you come off how good it feels,” he adds, smiling.

Zayn rolls his eyes but refuses to slow the way he grinds back. “Feels good. Fantastic. Bloody well – “

“And I want you to come,” Liam whispers, words ghosting up the tendons and the veins, to the crook of Zayn’s elbow when he falters, “looking me in the eyes, babe. Wanna know I did this for you.”

(He feels vulnerable and open and he knows he _shouldn’t_ be – not for this smug, teasing, impossibly beautiful bloke who’s never been his type but – there’s no clause and no fine print and no addendum to the way he feels right here, beneath Zayn.)

Zayn bruises his bottom lip with his teeth and the dark hollows in his eyes fill with something unique – _astonishing_ , Liam thinks, proudly – when he starts to slow to match Liam’s rhythm.

There’s salty sweat on his forehead, under his jaw, and flush all along his cheeks. Zayn drops to his elbows with a scrunched brow to scrape his mouth along Liam’s and slip his tongue over Liam’s teeth.

They kiss like that – with Liam jolting every other thrust into Zayn and their fingers meeting in the ocean of sheets and Zayn’s knees going ruddy from trying to ride Liam.

Auxiliary fingers, not chasing Zayn’s for a grip in the sheets, smooth over Zayn’s ribs, over the playing card and his thumb streaks over _‘a pirate’s life for me’_ before his hips raise up into a steady beat.

Zayn leverages his strength, sits up and into Liam’s lap, jolted by Liam fucking up into him. He eases a hand down his clenched stomach muscles, all the way to his cock, squeezing defenselessly around it while staring down at Liam.

Watching Liam like he’ll fade or this will end too soon.

It makes Liam feel so enamored with this sense of control and fond of the plush, red mouth hanging open and wide eyes like crystallized galaxies blinking down at him. He smiles dopily up at Zayn, making him falter again, making him sigh happily and tighten around Liam.

It’s like a rubber band finally snapping and Liam watches curiously.

He follows the line of Zayn’s neck when his head tips back and hears the crack of his spine as he stretches and the breathy little keens shoved out of his lips as he comes up Liam’s chest echo in Liam’s head. Come soaks Zayn’s knuckles, thick and streaking as it squirts up Liam’s belly, over his heaving chest.

It’s like something Liam’s never watched – Zayn coming apart.

The way he shakes and trembles for so long after, still pulsing little ribbons of come out of his cock. Still squeezing the shaft and thumbing the sensitive head. Rapidly softer after-shocks of breaths, achy whimpers like he’s trying to come down but _can’t_.

(Tensing around Liam, the rim keeping Liam inside even though he’s trying to pull out instead of coming right here, buried in Zayn.)

“Please,” Liam whispers, absently, twisting and squirming along the sheets.

Zayn’s determined, even if he’s still shivering, still uncoordinated. He drags a come-stained hand over Liam’s throat and settles Liam deep, fumbling a genuine smile with hair in his eyes.

“Come on, babe. Come for me. Just _come_ – fuck. C’mon, you know you want to and you can, I really – “

Liam twists his neck uncomfortably to smother a kiss to Zayn’s lips, swallowing down Zayn’s pleased sigh when Liam starts to throb inside of him.

He comes with a _‘fuck you’re still so tight’_ and a soft _‘this is mad but I need you again’_ pressed to Zayn’s lips and a hand reflexively squeezing at Zayn’s hip to keep him still.

They’re breathless and overwhelmed when Liam eases back down onto his spine with Zayn cradled in one arm. He flutters his eyelashes against Zayn’s temple and feels his come leaking from Zayn’s hole onto his thigh but he doesn’t wince like he’s _expecting_ –

He stutters out a quiet laugh while Zayn shakes his head loosely under Liam’s jaw.

“Sick,” Zayn exhales.

“In a good way?” Liam wonders, outlining all of the vertebrae in Zayn’s spine.

Zayn hums a response that’s a little bit of a _‘yes’_ and a laughing _‘no’_ and Liam refuses to ask anything else.

He lets them stay like this – quiet, comfortable, a little bit in

(he still is without a word and confused but unwilling to think it through)

“We need a shower,” he whispers into Zayn’s hair.

“In a few,” Zayn whispers with a yawn, patting his clean hand to Liam’s cheek. “Just lemme,” he sighs and Liam feels him scrunching his nose, “Just need a second to calm down, man.”

“Still horny?” Liam teases but he feels it too.

That little star of an ember deep in his belly and lighting up everything else like a fucking supernova.

He licks away the dryness from his lips before angling his head to kiss at Zayn’s mouth and everything that he’s meaning to say doesn’t quite fit between all of the affection they exchange under a tiny streak of the moon haloing through Zayn’s loft.

 

+++

 

It’s still an early sunrise, all of the pinks and heavy gold and pinwheel blues peeking into the too large windows of the loft. Liam is shuffling around the cold hardwood floors in bare feet with a dumb grin and sleepy eyes, scrambling for clothes and something to scribble a note on –

(a silly _‘buy you a drink after work? maybe a date? X – Li’_ he can leave on the coffee table next to a hot cup of whatever he can find in Zayn’s cupboards)

Because Liam has never been as carefree as Niall. He refuses to do a walk of shame into the office with a wrinkled shirt missing a few buttons, the taste of bad champagne at the back of his throat and all of Zayn’s little marks mapped across his skin.

(well, maybe he doesn’t mind showing off all of the artwork Zayn’s mouth left behind but still.)

He peeks over his shoulder, biting along his smile, at the lump of blankets creating the cavern Zayn’s burrowed into, just smudges of dark hair sticking out. Liam snorts quietly, shaking his head, stumbling up to the coffee table half-dressed.

There’s a red pen and a collage of papers and a few photos and –

Something freezes right around Liam’s bones. They’re photos of him, in suits and tuxedos and at Tom’s wedding, Andy’s too. His goofy smile at Paddy’s reception. Pieces of an article typed and scribbled over all of the sheets and a headline –

‘ ** _Paradise on Repeat_**

_‘Why be the groom when you can re-live your fantasy weddings over and over as the cherished best man?’ Twenty-three year old Liam Payne is living that dream: the helpless, cherished best man who fixes everything… except his own heart and borrowed dreams.’_

He can’t swallow. His hands shake at his side and Liam tastes an almost sour copper flavor along his tongue from chewing too hard at his lip. It’s a numbness down his sternum and ice in his blood.

(and there’s that squeak of glass cracking from too much pressure deep in his chest that he won’t call _heartbreak_ – because you have to be in love to know what that feels like.)

“Hey,” Zayn mumbles from the bed, stretching, kicking back the duvets with a loud yawn. “G’morning?”

Liam shifts on his heels and blinks at Zayn for a long moment, hovering over the coffee table.

Zayn tilts his head, scrubbing a hand over his eyes, blinking back.

“What is this?” Liam asks, waving his hand over the papers.

Zayn sniffs and it takes a few seconds for his brain to catch up with his vision before Zayn tenses.

“Liam, babe – “

“What the fuck is this?” Liam growls, snatching up photos, knocking the papers about carelessly.

A pink tongue flicks over chapped lips and something guilty, apologetic flinches a frown over Zayn’s mouth.

“Listen, Liam, babe, I – “

Liam shakes his head and he can’t name what’s biting, stinging behind his eyelashes or why he thinks of nothing but studying the art of _betrayal_ through novels and Shakespearian dictation while in secondary school but –

“I’m a joke, right?” he asks, dropping his chin. The photos slip from between his fingers, floating like gold and orange leaves next to his feet. “I’m a donut. Quite the dumb ass that Payne kid. Just someone to take the piss out of.”

“No, _wait_ – “

Liam clears his throat with a pathetic laugh, blinking away that heavy film of wetness behind his lashes. He sniffs, keeping his eyes low, shrugging on his shirt. There’s a stutter behind his chest that tempers the anger but breaks something else around all of his organs.

(Because you can’t fall in love without expecting to smack your head on the ground at some point.)

“Why would anyone bother to marry a bloke like me?” Liam asks, more to himself, the shake in his voice inescapable. “I’m just – I’m _nothing_ , really. Normal, boring Liam Payne. Just the best man.”

Zayn shuffles out of the bed in _Liam’s briefs_ and it’s enough to make Liam spin away and stomp towards the door.

“Liam,” Zayn half-begs, reaching out.

Liam squirms away, biting back the roar in his throat and the tremble on his insides.

“Fuck off Zayn,” he hisses, yanking the door open. “You’re brilliant at your job – making twats like me’self believe we’re anything other than just the idiots dreaming ‘bout being in love rather than sorting out how t’ do it. Cheers.”

He’s down the hall and into the lifts before Zayn can follow.

(And when the doors ping shut, he presses limply against the elevator wall. He’s shoving his fists against his eyes until the tears burn his knuckles and all of the Technicolor behind his eyelids blurs everything out of focus.)

 

+++

 

The sky is perfectly grey outside, London a worn out newspaper color from the lifeless buildings and the heavy overcast and it’s so fitting that Liam almost hates it.

His phone buzzes over the counter in the kitchen, right across from him, and he doesn’t even flinch to answer it.

 _Missed call number seven_.

It’s taken four days and three bottles of Niall’s favorite whiskey brand and countless hours moping in the bed just to shave, shower, and bother raiding his fridge for something mildly edible. There’s a constant throb in his head – the bass beat in all of those club mixes he used to love – and he knows it’s not from the alcohol.

Or the constant sleeping.

Or anything but this nameless thing that’s a little acidic but still tastes a little like –

 _No, wait_ – those four letters won’t fit over his tongue.

Liam huffs out a sigh, his flat built by shadows and a cold sofa to match the ice in his lungs every time he breathes too deep. His teeth wear down on his lip, almost drawing blood, and he keeps blinking at the phone he refuses to touch.

Seven missed calls (from Zayn), three text messages (two from Niall, one from Louis), five voice mails (mostly Zayn) and half a battery that he wishes would just give out.

(Like his heart)

Louis doesn’t trouble him about missing work and Niall only stops off every night with a takeaway pizza, a kiss on the cheek, and a fresh bottle of something brown to contrast with the sympathetic glimmer in those blue eyes. But he doesn’t say a word –

(Reason number six he’s so madly in love with his best mate)

And Liam smiles at him with slumped shoulders, heavy eyes rimmed with leftover tears and a put upon smile until Niall shuffles out of sight.

Liam doesn’t answer any of Zayn’s phone calls and he hasn’t seen Harry in four days and he doesn’t know if any of that really matters.

He steals a small carton of ice cream from the ice box with a clean spoon and the radio on low. His flat is lit a soft grey-blue and it hits him like a hurricane

(and he knows, fuck _he knows_ how awfully cheesy and daft that sounds but it feels so, so true underneath his skin that he can’t blink it away)

when he peeks into the living room over an old framed picture of his parents.

On their wedding day.

Happy, he thinks, sucking frozen chocolate off a cold spoon and sighing. The sort of dreamy tales his mum would spin to him, in bed, too young to know things like that are rare.

Liam licks away excess ice cream from his lips, cocking his head to stare at the road map of fairy tales printed black over newspaper on his fridge. Each one attached with a ‘ _Z. Javadd’_ on the byline that mocks him in the shadows, with the slow thrum of _‘poured myself a warm glass and laid awake’_ over the radio.

He bites his lip, chilled and still sweet, scanning over the newspaper cutouts with a frown –

**_‘A Constellation of Dreams at Twilight by the Thames’_ **

**_‘A Paris Love Affair under the lights of Big Ben’_ **

**_‘Broken Hearts Mended with words and a sunset’_ **

Liam blinks down when Loki scampers into the kitchenette, whimpering, wide eyes staring up at Liam. He smiles around his spoon, exhaling against _‘parts of me remind me of you’_ and _‘only ever in dreams I wrap my arms around you’_ before dragging a small grin for Loki over his twisted lips.

“You’d marry me, right boy?” he asks, his throat clutching around familiar words.

Loki grunts a small bark before shuffling away and _that’s it_ –

Something so similar and heavy – alone.

Liam sputters a small laugh and drags the back of his hand across his eyes to catch the warm tears he never meant to let out.

(A repeat of _‘I hope it’s not just a bad dream, hope it’s not just a sad dream’_ whispered in the background of his empty flat.)

 

+++

 

It’s an early Saturday and warm when he catches the train out to Wolverhampton.

The same quiet streets, old bits of town, scratched brick and tall trees he remembers from ages ago. The broken fence surrounding the backyard, ridiculous blue bunnies on his bedroom curtains. The gravel driveway and faded shutters and his father trying to tune up the same rusted out truck in the yard on the cozy street Liam still loves.

(Still dreams about when London seems too huge and too foreign.)

“She’ll be up and running by summer,” Geoff grins, mopping his brow with a dirty hanky.

(It’s the same thing he says every spring, even though he’ll give up on the engine and kick the bumper just before June and let it sit.

He’ll forget about it until March, when he throws himself into fixing the house up instead of thinking of the day Liam’s mum died.

Somehow, they’re so similar in that fleeting aspect.)

Liam grins, rounding the hood, dragging his fingertips over the headlamps and cool metal.

“I know,” he mutters, dragging the sleeve of his shirt over Geoff’s cheek to smear off the grease.

Geoff smirks, tugs him in for one of those strong, lingering hugs because they’re both too afraid to admit it’s been too long.

(And they’ll both whisper _‘I love you’_ with thumping fists on the back and something stinging the corners of their eyes.)

“Haz is in the house,” Geoff hums, cracking a wrench on a pipe when the truck doesn’t crank. “Been mucking about and moping for about a week now. Not speaking like – “

“When he was seven and couldn’t find his favorite teddy bear ‘round the house,” Liam smiles, leaning back on his heels.

“Still think you hid it from him,” Geoff teases and Liam pleads innocent with raised hands, a devious little grin that Geoff chuckles at. “You were such a menace to him.”

“Was not,” Liam pouts.

Geoff shakes his head and knocks their hips when he reaches for a new tool to fiddle with the wires.

“He was such a twat,” Liam mumbles with his bottom lip sucked between his teeth. “Plus he always got all the best gifts at hols.”

“He was the baby,” Geoff admonishes, still smiling under the hood.

“Doesn’t make ‘im any less of a prick,” Liam shrugs, a half-smile tickled over his lips.

“You’re still my favorite fella,” Geoff says, under his breath, a little too genuine with a scrunched brow.

Liam sighs and nods because –

He knows it’s true. His father has never let him feel any less than bloody amazing.

(Even when he was shit at basketball and struggled with his literature course work and got his heart broke – _twice_ in six months.)

“I think I might’ve mucked up things for Harry,” Liam whispers, his chin lowered, his feet digging into the grass. “I was a right bastard.”

Geoff hums gently, under the hood, knocking a hammer against metal.

“Your mum was always so certain you’d have it better than us,” he says, his voice sinking into that carefully gentle tone he reserves for talks about her.

Liam scratches fingers over the nape of his neck, watching the grass shift with the wind.

“She used to go on about you for hours after you went to bed,” Geoff laughs. “A right daydreamer you were. Bright fella but your head was always a bit in the clouds.”

Liam smirks, unintentionally, his heart floating on the affection in Geoff’s voice.

“And she loved it. Loved every bit of you,” Geoff sighs, drawing back to mop sweat from his forehead. “She wanted so much for you to th’nk outside of the box, Li. Jump off a cliff without looking. Just go mental for whatever you wanted.”

Liam chews at his lip, shoves his hands into his pockets.

The same old quiet road with a few children running about, the sun spiked high in the sky, the trees an evergreen he dreams about back home.

( _No, wait_ – back in London. _This is home_.)

Geoff sniffs, sweat caught on his eyelashes, dirt smudged up his forearms and these delightful crinkles around his eyes when he gazes up at the long stretch of blue sky overhead.

“She was such a lovely lady,” Geoff hums. “All she wanted was her little lad t’ fall head, feet, _whole body_ first in love like we did. S’all she wanted for you, Li.”

The wind shifts, anti-clockwise, a nice brush of warmth and thick flowery scent when Liam’s shoulders pull tight. Dandelion seeds dust by like leftover snow. They tickle the tip of Liam’s nose and he soaks in the heat above.

The old radio in the cab of the truck lets out strains of static-y music, old tunes, a buzz of _‘I’m so glad I found you I want my arms around you I love to hear you call my name’_ under the breeze –

(He remembers dances in the kitchen, his mum and dad, when he was still too young and watching from the archway with wide, fascinated eyes.)

Geoff nudges him with an elbow. “Remember what I said t’ you when you sat me down to tell me about you fancying blokes?”

Liam blushes under the subtle heat, nodding, chewing his lip.

“I’m gonna love you no matter what you do, Li,” Geoff smirks. “As long as whatever lad you fall in love with loves you too, then you’re still all that matters f’r me.”

A rough, relaxing exhale escapes Liam’s lungs and Geoff eases a heavy arm around his shoulders.

On instinct (and _need_ ), Liam nudges back into the touch.

“S’what your mum wanted too,” Geoff adds, his next breath catching, “And I c’n tell – _someone_ was making you rather happy, I reckon. Doesn’t take a brilliant bloke like myself to spot that.”

He gives the bumper a good kick and Liam laughs, hides the noise in the crook of his father’s neck.

“So _fix_ it.”

 

+++

 

The floorboards in the entryway still groan loudly like they did when he was younger, running inside the house, covered in mud with round cheeks and a dodgy buzz cut.

The window in the living room is half cracked, letting in bits of sun and warm scents while blowing out the smell of burnt pancakes

(his father is a _horrible_ cook but Liam and Harry never say a word)

with that hint of cheap coffee grounds Geoff loves every morning.

Cool shadows spill over the living room, over Liam’s favorite beat-up couch and across the oak coffee table. Clips of blue against simmering orange all over the room. Harry curled in on himself (like when they were kids) on the couch, cuddling a throw pillow, sniffling into the sleeve of his tartan shirt.

Messy curls and creamy skin and a pink nose. Pajama pants from when he was sixteen (and stealing all of the attention from Liam) stopping just above his bare ankles, leftover bowls of cereal with banana chunks, untouched breakfast tea going cold on the table.

Re-runs of old Spider-Man cartoons because it’s the only bit of comic books Liam could get Harry into.

Liam licks out a small, guilty smile, hovering over the couch. Harry doesn’t move, doesn’t even bother to kick out at Liam like he used to when he was angry.

When he was being a right brat about nothing and everything all at once.

Instead, Liam sinks down onto the couch and curls around Harry until that stiff string in Harry’s spine snaps and he cuddles back.

Liam buries his smile into those tangled curls, sniffs at Harry’s spearmint body wash and strokes his fingers over Harry’s knuckles.

They waste away, quietly, while the white noise from the telly and the breeze outside picks apart all of the words they’re holding in.

Harry nudges his head into Liam’s nose, sighing.

Liam squeezes back until Harry’s ready.

“Don’t wan’ end up like me mom,” Harry admits with a clipped voice, a wounded breath. “I just – I wanted to be _happy_. With one bloke. I guess, like. With him.”

Liam blinks his eyes shut and crowds closer. He waits until Harry’s breath slows, until he’s not close to shattering.

“I know,” he whispers and it’s the _‘I’m sorry’_ they both can’t say.

( _no, wait – not yet_.)

 

+++

 

Liam is halfway through his morning coffee

(from his favorite café with a chewy biscuit and a little taste of something clear in his lungs)

when Niall flops down on a corner of his desk. He’s wearing a stained shirt, naturally rosy cheeks, messy gold-brown hair (probably from a quick snog with Josh) and a newspaper.

Unfolded, to the Commitments section, tossed down in front of Liam.

Liam frowns up at Niall’s edgy grin and follows a nail-bitten finger across the headline –

‘ **The Real Hero: Clark Kent**

 _‘Mr. Perfect isn’t the groom waiting for you at the end of the aisle – he’s actually the best man standing next to him; the one making sure every tiny piece of your huge day, your_ moment _is taken care of. He’s not Superman – he’s **Liam Payne**._

_And he’s everything you’ll be lucky enough to fall in love with…’_

Liam blinks at the article repeatedly, at the tiny picture of him in a suit at Andy’s wedding, black and white stretched smile and half-tousled hair. A hollow breath hitches in his throat, something rattling a little too loudly behind his chest.

Niall beams down at him, smug and bright behind a pair of dark Ray-Bans.

“He changed it around,” he says, tapping across the bold print over and over until Liam knocks his hand away. “The asshole rewrote the whole thing.”

Liam swallows down the _‘no, wait’_ this time but he refuses to let his mind catch up with that echo in his chest.

“For _you_ ,” Niall adds, leaning in, smirking. “Th’t right asshole changed it f’r you, mate.”

Liam leans back in his chair, scrubbing a hand over the nape of his neck while shooting Niall a casually blank stare.

(Even if there’s something crawling underneath his skin and he feels so _lost_ on it all.)

Niall sighs loudly, stealing the last of Liam’s coffee. “It’s a sappy piece of shit article, actually,” he shrugs, tipping his sunglasses down to the edge of his nose. “All romantic. Chats ‘bout you like you’re a superhero or summat.”

A puff of air parts Liam’s lips but he folds his arms rather than speaking. He narrows his eyes doubtfully at Niall.

“C’mon, bro,” Niall groans, tipping back. “The dumb arsehole is _trying_ here.”

Liam nicks back his coffee, sipping down a swallow. He presses his elbows on his desk, fluttering his eyes over the newspaper once, twice, shoving it away.

“Doesn’t matter,” he mumbles.

“Of course not,” Niall mutters, sounding indignant and annoyed at Liam’s passiveness. He shoves at Liam’s shoulder, twitching out a smile that Liam can’t ignore.

(And he hates how much he loves this dumb tit but he doesn’t tell Niall that. He absolutely refuses to.)

Niall knocks over the empty cardboard cup with his sunglasses hanging half off his face and those blue eyes like stars on water. His lips stretch into a grin and his hand scrubs through Liam’s hair before he jerks his head towards that large glass box of an office.

“Had a proper chat with ‘im since ye’ve been back?” he asks, low and throaty.

Liam makes a face before slowly shaking his head.

He can see Louis with his back to them, staring out the windows, a hand pressed to the glass and the soft spill of Coldplay is immediate.

Just a rush of _‘all I know is that I love you so, so much that it hurts’_ that’s incredibly familiar –

(The breakup with the university lad, Louis humming all the way through _‘Ghost Stories’_ six times behind his office door.

That burnt batch of chewy chocolate chip cookies Liam tried to make for Louis because they were his favorite.

All of those mint memories and they’re just two broken hearts on opposite sides of the glass now.)

“He’s been kicking about the office while you’ve been gone,” Niall admits, drawing back. The sun picks at the freckles over his nose and the flush in his cheeks as he adds, “Nothin’ but him and Chris Martin, the twit. Hasn’t said much. T’ink he missed ye ‘round here.”

Liam hides his face in his hands for a moment.

He knows he’s pink cheeked and _desperate_ when he peeks at Niall, groaning. “He’s not.”

Niall chuckles, flicking at the cup until it rolls off the edge of the desk.

“Maybe,” he sighs, hopping off Liam’s desk. “But for a shite assistant, he can’t seem to do much without ya.”

Niall drifts away, starting up a conversation with a group of art design kids and Liam hauls in a swift, sharp breath before he shoves out of his chair.

The office vibrates with this sullen swell of _‘got a tattoo and the pain’s alright just want a way of keeping you inside’_ and the easy blue sky outside shifts light over everything.

Liam clears his throat gently, smiling when Louis stumbles around and they stare at each other until it hurts not to blink.

“You haven’t touched your coffee,” Liam mentions, edging inside, nodding towards the cold cup at the end of Louis’ desk.

(In the same spot he left it, this morning, before Louis staggered in with a frown and a pressed suit.)

Louis nods with a tiny smile. “Should’ve known it was from you.”

Liam snorts, rounding the desk, dragging his fingers over the cold glass.

“You’re such a diva,” he teases, fixing Louis’ poorly knotted tie, brushing down his collar. “Don’t know how you made it nearly a week without me bringing you Starbucks.”

“It was quite disastrous,” Louis laughs, his voice soft, worn down. “Think I might’ve gave Leigh-Anne a right fright the other morn when I yelled about needing some Liam-tea.”

Liam laughs, the feeling so genuine and full in his chest. “Bugger off,” he smiles with half-lidded eyes, still pressing sweaty hands over Louis’ lapels. “You’re a bastard without your corporate latte.”

Louis smirks unevenly. “Are you quite finished?”

They trade slowly growing smiles like this is – it’s a fresh breath.

It’s _oxygen_ when they’re suffocating but a little too nervous to talk about it.

Liam grinds his lower lip between his teeth while Louis stares down at his mouth and it’s a –

( _no, wait – it’s not_.)

“I put off the wedding,” Louis admits, clearing something awful from his throat. “Didn’t feel right, mate. He wasn’t – we had a chat. And he – “

Liam swallows for Louis.

They don’t look each other in the eye but Liam’s almost certain he knows what’s there – _uncertainty_.

“He’s not ready,” Louis sighs.

Liam sniffs and nods.

“I want what’s best for Penny,” Louis whispers, toeing closer.

Liam nods again, sucking in a breath and they’re closing this space and breaking down walls built for a reason.

“I do too,” Liam mutters, sighing, staring at the print on Louis’ tie and the charcoal of his jacket.

“She needs a good bloke in her life,” Louis huffs. “Someone who’s gonna stick around. Someone who’ll put up with my awful personality in the morning.”

Liam giggles and presses his hand down the front of Louis’ jacket.

“And my impeccable style.”

“You’re a right whore for Topman, mate,” Liam teases, keeping his eyes low.

“And the way I can’t function without coffee or proper tea – “

“Starbucks,” Liam whispers. “And Japanese takeaway. Your Coldplay addiction.”

“My hard-on for Chris Martin,” Louis says, his chest filling out for a deep breath, something fond in his voice. “And who will make her feel like a princess.”

Liam nods, chewing his lip sore, the rapid leap of his heart almost uncontrollable now.

“She gave me this drawing the other morn,” Louis laughs and the tips of his fingers clip Liam’s waist, unsure. “It was silly, honestly. It was of her – _Princess Penny_ she said.”

“S’her codename,” Liam whispers under his breath, smiling.

“And a bloke that looked like _you_ – “

“Clark Kent,” they whisper together, grinning.

“And another lad,” Louis breathes. “Captain Zap, me thinks? A bit silly, innit?”

(And it’s _right there_ – the pause in his heartbeat. The hurricane and all of the stupid metaphors he’ll never understand in his head.)

Liam’s hands fall away and he thinks it’s a _moment_ –

He could just say it and Louis would say it back and that’s it.

That’s how it could start.

Liam takes in a deep breath, flickering his eyes up and the drawing is on the corner of Louis’ desk, crayon doodles and it’s Penny with a cape, him, and Captain Zap with a huge _‘Z’_ on his chest and –

There’s three words stuck to Liam’s tongue but they never pass his teeth. He shoves them to the roof of his mouth because –

They’re meant for someone else. Someone other than Louis now.

He shoots Louis a put upon smile, patting his cheek with a warm hand, backing away.

“I’m a shit assistant,” he says, half-laughing, ignoring the confused furrow of Louis’ brow. “And I was madly in love with you for a long time.”

Louis drags a slow tongue over his lips, brushing them shiny, tilting his head.

“But not like Harry, mate,” Liam shrugs. “And I don’t quite love you like I do that asshole who keeps creeping me Facebook and making me hate weddings.”

He feels lightheaded and he can’t stop the laughter, the way the adrenaline rushes through his blood, this need to –

To walk away from someone else’s dream and find a bit of _courage_ for himself.

 

+++

 

There’s a garden just east of Hyde Park with marigolds lining a gravel sidewalk and ivy curling around winking Christmas lights and a white archway for all of the reception guests to walk through.

It takes Liam two hours, too many searches on Facebook, a few phone calls to the Times (thanks to Niall, the beautiful bastard) before he finds where Zayn is.

And London is too big with far too many people crowding the streets at night but Liam manages a cab all the way to this little venue for a bride and groom he doesn’t know.

(for clarity and a _love_ , because that’s what it is and he wants to give it a name now, that feels a lot less foreign to him.)

Liam shoves anxiously through the crowd of foreign faces, shifting impatiently through a conga line of wedding guests, avoiding all of the eyes sparing glances at him, ignoring this rush of something edgy spiking through his nervous system.

Like he’s too late.

Liam shrugs all the way down to the only place he can think of – the open bar at a corner of the garden.

His ( _moment_ ) is studying an empty champagne glass with soft dark hair half in his eyes, sharp cheekbones clean of stubble, a loose button-up with the sleeves wrinkled up to his elbows and the early evening sky is cotton pink and lavender overhead.

(and his _courage_ is somewhere back in the taxi but he forces a hint of bravery into his cells when he staggers up to the bar.)

“You look like you could use a drink,” Liam says, soft, nervous.

Zayn blinks up with a crinkled brow, a small curve to pink lips. His undone collar shows off hints of ink and he sucks in his bottom lip before holding up an empty glass at Liam.

Lips ease into a smirk so effortlessly that Liam swears its instinct now.

“Um, hi,” he mumbles, catching his own lip with his teeth.

“’lo,” Zayn replies with a blank expression hugging his face. He sniffs, tipping his chin up, scanning his eyes down Liam until he flushes from cheeks to chest. “What’re you doing ‘ere?”

(Liam sucks in a quick breath, fisting that courage into his chest.)

He shuffles into Zayn’s space, hesitantly, leaning on the bar while the sun sinks lower.

“Just wanted to buy you a drink?” Liam offers, shoving the shyness from his voice.

Zayn lifts his eyebrows curiously. “That all?”

Liam clears his throat, shaking his head. “Probably not,” he shrugs, leaning closer. The clarity melts into his lungs when Zayn doesn’t shift away. “I wanted t’ see you. It’s like, um, there’s so many things I sort of want to say.”

“But?”

Liam shakes his head again, smiling nervously. “There’s no but – I want to say it.”

Zayn nods along, still nibbling his lip. He brushes an elbow over Liam’s, shifting against the bar, closer.

“’m listening.”

Liam swallows but he nudges in, making the gap shallow, dancing fingertips along Zayn’s hip like maybe this is okay.

(Maybe they’re a little more comfortable without all of the words and speeches and dramatic endings.)

“Got me out of Commitments,” Zayn admits when Liam’s too quiet, still too apprehensive for too long. He smiles something honest, looking up at the sky.

(the long line of his neck, the faded pink sky against his features making everything soft and neon)

“It’s funny how writing about you finally helped me out,” Zayn says, a tease in his voice, crinkled lines forming around his eyes when he speaks, “My editor thought it was fair. She said I was too brilliant for silly wedding columns and I told her – “

He takes in a deep breath and Liam follows along, watching Zayn’s mouth.

“There’s no such thing,” he says, turning his head, stardust along his eyelashes when he looks at Liam. “Silly weddings, I mean.”

 _Relief_ , he thinks. Relief and a loss of tension and all Liam wants to do is kiss that wide smirk off of Zayn’s lips.

(and tell him a dozen things he can’t write out in poetic lines like Zayn does)

“Um, what I wanted t’ say,” Liam starts and Zayn tilts his head at him like _‘go ahead I’m listening’_ in a way that makes Liam completely flustered and insanely excited all at once.

“You’re not my type,” he sighs with a wrinkled smile.

Zayn arches an eyebrow instantly, laughing.

“And you’re not what I wanted to fall in love with,” Liam continues, his heart somewhere beneath his tongue, “because I hate arguing. And you’ve awful taste in wedding gifts. And you’re just a bit cynical.”

“Just a bit?” Zayn whispers with a hum, with a tongue rolling the words against his lips.

Liam nods once, snickering. “Horrible,” he breathes and Zayn sways closer. “And maybe that’s why I did fall.”

“You did?”

His chest expands and that flutter underneath his organs spreads into his veins when Zayn flutters his eyelashes like he doesn’t believe a single word.

“I might’ve figured out that maybe life isn’t all about having a massive wedding day just for a moment,” Liam says. “Maybe that moment you want in life is the day you finally fall in love with someone. It’s scary and overwhelming and all of those things I’m certain you feel on your wedding day.”

Zayn licks at his lips again, dragging his eyes over Liam’s face, scratching fingers up Liam’s palm until he finds the pulse point along his wrist.

“And it’s massive,” Liam stutters.

“Huge,” Zayn grins, edging closer.

“Impossibly big,” Liam giggles when their noses brush.

“Are we still talking about weddings and falling in love?” Zayn asks, his voice floating soft and low. “Or my dick?”

Liam snorts and Zayn skims his mouth over Liam’s in that gentle way that reminds Liam of _spring_.

Of warm winds and evergreen and all of the things Liam loves.

“Maybe that’s the only moment I’ve been waiting on,” Liam adds, hushed, “because I can’t quite get it out of my head. Falling in love with someone who might love me too.”

“Might,” Zayn repeats, brushing their lips with a little more friction. “It’s mental, innit?”

“I think so,” Liam whispers, flicking his eyes closed. “You tell me, mate.”

He hesitates, so close, his brow wrinkling into worried lines when Zayn stays still.

“So am I your type now?”

Liam exhales a quick breath, nudging his nose over Zayn’s. “Can you deal with me being a bit of a donut and wanting something simple?”

“Simple,” Zayn repeats.

“Yeah,” Liam breathes, swallowing down that last hint of confusion. “Sort of like in all of those dumb fairy tales?”

Zayn’s nose wrinkles but he laughs against Liam’s mouth. “ _C’mere._ ”

Zayn leans up on his toes, just a fraction, shoves his lips against Liam’s and mutters a quick _‘I love you too’_ over Liam’s tongue.

A hand fists into Liam’s hair and Liam steadies Zayn with a strong grip on his waist. He sways into the kiss, into the _‘you’re every line you’re every word you’re everything’_ playing in the garden with this dopey smile and Zayn chasing each of his laughs with another kiss.

With another ( _moment_ ) between their breaths.

 

+++

 

“This is a bit dull, innit?” Niall asks behind a pair of dark sunglasses and with a huff instead of a sigh.

Liam grins from the mirror, Geoff dusting invisible bits of lint from Liam’s waistcoat with shaking hands. Liam pats his shoulder fondly and Geoff has done a pretty remarkable job at concealing most of his happy tears and he made it through most of his speech at the rehearsal dinner the other night without stuttering but –

It’s in his eyes, like broken up star pieces, the tiny tears at the corners and the way he keeps crinkling his eyes to keep them in.

The rush of pride that heats Liam’s chest spreads all through his limbs and he lets Geoff fiddle with his bowtie even though they both know he’s not very useful at it.

“It’s what Zayn wants,” Liam says over his shoulder and the unmistakable feeling of affection that wraps around his bones clutches at his voice when he adds, “It’s what we _both_ want.”

Niall shrugs haphazardly, peeking through a flap of the white tent they’re hidden under.

Liam can taste the salty ocean and he sniffs at the coastal sands and it’s almost a year and a half later, but this feels like the moment he’s been planning for ages.

(On a beach north of London with a crowd of mates and family. With simple white chairs and an uncomplicated seating arrangement and flower petals outlining an aisle for him to walk down.

A quiet, lazy Friday morning at the edge of summer.

Something _simple_ and, without hesitation, Liam smiles helplessly at that.)

“I expected a big band and fireworks and formal tuxes, mate,” Niall hums, scrubbing a hand through his wrecked hair, smirking at Liam in the reflection. “Something massive, bro. All of the papers would write ‘bout it or summat.”

Liam smiles, ducking his head while his cheeks burn hot and pink.

“Saving it for _your_ huge day, mate.”

Niall gasps in mock horror and Liam aligns his laugh with his father’s while they press out all of the wrinkles in Geoff’s loosely buttoned shirt.

“Josh would be so feckin’ lucky,” Niall grunts.

“London would be so _grateful_ ,” Liam teases and Niall flips him off in the mirror with a wide, wide smile.

“Wait – slow down a bit, princess.”

Her giggle always leaves Liam a bit lightheaded, a throb deep in his heart that pulses loudly. Liam half-turns when Penny scrambles into the tent, dragging a clumsy Harry behind her, her tiny hand swimming in his large one, their matching smiles and messy hair.

“She’s a strong one,” Harry huffs, out of breath with sloppy curls and large green eyes.

His shirt is partly undone in that very haphazardly _Harry_ -way and his lips curl upward, red like jarred cherries with flexing dimples.

“She’s _five_ , mate,” Niall says flatly from a corner.

“She’s got superpowers!” Harry announces, crooked eyebrows and a challenging glare that Niall rolls his eyes at, laughing quietly.

Penny giggles near his knees, cheeks glowing pink and glitter dusting her arms and sloppily knotted pigtails swaying like the hem of her frilly pear dress. She tugs at Harry’s fingers, impatient and dizzy like a fairy. Harry nudges her with his hip, choking out a noise that’s light and _happy_ and –

They’re inseparable. Penny and her toothy grin. Harry and his oblivious fondness for her. A stain of something ( _love_ , Liam thinks, gratefully) bright between them that Liam can’t help watching.

“Go give that bugger uncle Niall a bloody mess of kisses before we have to get back to Papa,” Harry whispers the suggestion, winking when she looks up.

Penny smirks, tilting her head, sighing contently before scrambling off and into Niall’s lap, his laughter echoing loudly over the beach as he tugs her up into his arms.

“You look absolutely awful,” Harry smiles, inching into Liam’s view, fixing his collar. “Did you dress y’self?”

Liam snorts, batting his hands away. “I used to haul your bony arse outta bed for school every morning, you knob. Think I’m fairly good at dressing me’self.”

Harry wriggles his eyebrows and they chase playfully swatting hands with throaty laughs until they’re red-faced.

“Quite the army you’ve got out there, Leeymo,” Harry mentions, dragging the back of his wrist over Liam’s cheeks to settle the crimson flush. “It’s like every person you’ve ever known is out there, mate.”

(Liam ducks his head, hiding his grin, feeling something overwhelmingly heavy – a _finally_. Because they’re all there, every bride and groom he’s ever stood next to for their ‘ _moment_ ,’ like he knew they always would be.)

“We’ve talked about getting married back home,” Harry pauses while adjusting Liam’s cuffs, looking thoughtful. “In Wolverhampton,” he adds, his voice shallow and vulnerable. “Next spring.”

Liam hums softly, watching Harry’s careful fingers.

“And I’ve already booked my own wedding planner so all you have t’ do is show up,” Harry chuckles, rolling his eyes when Liam shoots him a slightly impressed look.

“Brilliant,” he whispers with a soft smile.

Harry nods along, keeping his eyes hooded. “Picking out a suit next weekend,” he mumbles, the corners of his mouth pulling up quickly when he adds, “ _together_ this time. Just me and Lou.”

“Topman?”

“Topman,” Harry repeats with a snort and Liam tips his head down to crowd into Harry’s eye line, blinking out a genuine and wide grin just for him.

Just for his brother.

“Asshole,” Harry mutters, ruffling Liam’s hair.

Liam jerks back with a giggle, eyes crinkling, his cheeks aching. “Donut.”

“My boys,” Geoff sighs out, curling an arm around their shoulders, tugging them in. “I _can’t_ ,” he stumbles, swallowing down something that wets his eyes and Liam trembles. “I’m so proud of you two.”

Harry snorts and Liam rolls his eyes with a quiet chuckle.

(And behind Geoff’s back, Harry pinches Liam’s bum and he yelps, scowling at Harry like when they were children.)

Harry pleads innocent, widening his eyes when Liam’s mouth curls to scold him before he finds Penny’s hand, leading her out of the tent.

“Better get in place,” Harry notes, gently fixing Penny’s dress. “The flower girl has been rehearsing all day for her big appearance.”

There’s something teasing in his voice and Penny does a clumsy curtsey ( _like a fairy princess_ ) before Harry hands her a basket of petals, wheezing out a laugh the whole way up to the aisle.

“Guess that’s me cue too,” Niall shrugs, easing around Liam, giving him a quick pat on the bum and a soft look like he’s holding back encouraging words because they don’t need them.

(Liam’s shoved away that list of _Things to Love About Niall_ ages ago but he knows this moment is on there, somewhere near the top.)

He can hear Geoff clearing his throat and, in the mirror, he watches his father smear tears from his eyes with a shaking hand before he grips Liam’s elbow. His thumb strokes on the inside for a connection, for something to calm his breaths and Liam turns just enough to brush away stray tears from Geoff’s eyelashes.

“You’re the only fella me and your mum ever needed,” he whimpers, shrugging away from Liam’s hand with a small laugh. “And I’m so happy f’r ya. So proud to be walking you down the aisle.”

“Finally,” Liam teases, his lips cocking crookedly into a grin.

“Not _finally_ ,” Geoff admonishes, sighing. “It happened when it was s’pposed to, Li. Right now. Like me and your mum.”

( _Courage_ , he thinks, his breath hitching in his lungs instead of his throat and a trembling hand rubbing Geoff’s shoulder like they both need the comfort.

They both need a bright memory to be framed.)

There’s a hundred eyes on him when Niall queues up something gentle on his acoustic guitar, at the top of the aisle, the waves breaking in the distance.

Liam digs his bare feet into the sand, trembling out a smile, gripping Geoff’s hand loosely for a moment.

(For a deep breath and a little bravery and just long enough to find Zayn at the edge of this madness.)

They’re all there – Andy and Jade, Tom, Paddy and his wife, all of the memories he helped create. They’re there with impossibly wide eyes, crinkled smiles, half-turned in their chairs to watch him. Laughing when Liam stumbles a little those first few steps, clapping when he makes it all the way to the edge of the aisle with sand in his trousers and sweaty palms and pink cheeks.

And _Zayn_ –

(fucking hell)

He’s biting his bottom lip ruddy and shiny. His dark hair drawn back into a tiny knot at the top of his head and wearing a pale gold sherwani that makes his skin look softer. Barely-there stubble, long eyelashes fluttering nervously, a tense jaw and –

Liam grins, stumbling into Zayn’s vision, tugging one of Zayn’s hands from his side to twine their fingers together.

He shoots Zayn this embarrassingly sugary smile that Zayn almost mimics except he looks so lost.

( _no, wait – so in love_ )

“How’d you,” Zayn starts, slow and quiet, wiggling his bare feet in the sand to get nearer. “How’d you do all of this?”

He’s casually motioning to the front row where Zayn’s parents are sat, his sisters grinning defenselessly behind them. To the gentle look in his parents eyes – like this moment is okay. Like they accept him and things are no longer – well, _indifferent_. To the imam at the head of the aisle, clearing his throat, smiling casually.

Liam thumbs over the mehndi inked to the back of Zayn’s hand, grinning.

“I’ve heard I’m fairly brilliant at weddings,” he whispers, his voice going shy at the last few words when Zayn looks up through his eyelashes.

And even quieter, Liam leans in with a breathless laugh before he adds, “Simple. This is _simple_ and this is me telling you I want this to be _our_ moment.”

(he promised himself he wouldn’t muck this up and this feels so familiar)

Zayn flinches like he’s been shocked and his lips quirk up, his fingers tightening around Liam’s as the wind shifts down the beach. It’s a low whistle, loud enough to hide the _‘thank you’_ Zayn mouths at Liam.

(And Liam finally succumbs to that frayed string of nostalgia because –

This is the _moment_ he’s been scribbling about for ages in his tiny notebook.

With Harry and Louis sat in the front row, Penny in Louis’ lap, Loki in Harry’s.

On a beach, at the edge of summer, with a crowd of friends watching him create this memory.

In an old suit like the one his father wore on his wedding day.

Next to a boy in a sherwani with his family finally happily watching all of this and with Whitman’s words in his throat because some cynical, arrogantly beautiful boy taught him about simplicity.)

Zayn eases a little closer, his smile dragging up cockily but something bright in his eyes – like early spring.

( _a lot like love_ , Liam thinks)

“You look like y’could use a drink,” Zayn whispers and Liam’s heart catches right there.

Right in this – well, _moment_.

He smiles back, squeezing at Zayn’s hand with everyone watching them, breathing in salty waves and Zayn’s heady scent and every flavor of this feeling he’s been waiting on for ages.

On _his_ moment – _no, wait_ – on _their_ moment.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> And that's that. It's not my usual piece but I hope it was worth a read. If it was terrible, just drop me a message and say "do better next time" haha xx
> 
> Thanks for all of the mad love I get over on Tumblr and thank you for reading, kudos, commenting, and dealing with my whining. You're all a bunch of rock stars ;)


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